“But I don’t think you’ll have any trouble if you swing out around the Flint hills,” said the army officer.
“Say, what the dickens have you been doing to this plane?” he demanded as he noticed for the first time, the smoke-blackened condition of the wings.
Tim explained what had taken place earlier in the day and the army officer whistled as the flying reporter told how they had been caught by the explosion of the oil tanks.
“If you’ve had a narrow escape like that today,” said Captain Nugent, “I guess flying the hills at night won’t bother you.”
“I’ve decided not to risk it,” said Tim. “I’m going to go around.”
“The air is getting sharper,” said the army man. “Sure you’ve got warm enough clothes? We’ll be glad to lend you some extra togs if there is anything you need.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Tim. “You’ve been mighty good to let me have these high explosive bombs. I won’t need anything more and now I think I’d better get under way.”
Tim climbed into the rear cockpit, tested the motor, and after waving farewell to Captain Nugent, sent the Good News skimming down the lighted runway.
The motor barked lustily as the plane gained altitude, the lights of the Fort Armstrong were soon lost in the night.
Tim followed the course Captain Nugent had helped him lay out. For more than an hour he sped over the right-of-way of the Southwestern Railroad. Mile after mile he was guided by the dim streaks of steel which were barely discernible in the darkness.