The ghostly quiet that comes just before the dawn was broken by the insistent voice of the telephone.
Tim rubbed the sleep from his eyes and grabbed savagely at the offending instrument.
“Hello, hello!” he barked.
An anxious voice came over the wire.
“What!” Tim’s exclamation was charged with alarm. “You’re sure? All right, I’ll be at the field just as soon as I can throw on some clothes and get in touch with Ralph.”
Tim jammed the receiver on its hook, only to seize it a moment later and something in his voice made the operator buzz furiously as she rang Ralph’s number. After an interval that seemed an age to Tim, a sleepy voice answered the operator’s imperative rings.
“That you, Ralph?” cried Tim. When the voice admitted that it belonged to Ralph, Tim poured his story over the wire.
“Wake up, Ralph. Wake up,” he urged. “There’s plenty of trouble over in the Big Smokies. Bad Storm last night and the west-bound Transcontinental plane has crashed somewhere. They haven’t had a trace of it since the ship went over Newton. The Transcontinental people have sent out a general alarm and Hunter just phoned and asked us to help in the search. Meet me at the field just as soon as you can get there.”
Ralph, thoroughly awakened by Tim’s words, promised to be at the field in fifteen minutes.
The flying reporter completed dressing and hastened from his room in quest of a taxicab. A driver, on the lookout for early morning fares, was loafing down the street and Tim hailed the cab.