“Is it safe to go up on a picture assignment for photos of those burning oil tanks?”
“If you’ll pay for all the paint I scorch off the plane,” said Tim.
“We’ll pay for it,” cried Carson. “Take Ralph with you and get all the pictures you can. We’ll want them for the city final. And whatever you do, don’t let your motor cut out when you’re over those burning tanks.”
“If it does you’ll have to look for two new reporters,” chuckled Ralph.
Tim turned the telephone over to another reporter and they stopped only long enough to get a camera and make sure that it had a plentiful supply of plates.
The editorial office was in an uproar. Carson was shouting orders at everyone who came within hearing distance; reporters were running from the room, starting for the scene of the explosion; others were hastening to hospitals where injured might have been taken and one was delving into the files to compare the present disaster with fires of other years.
A heavy pall of oily, black smoke blanketed the city and some streets were so dark the street lights had been turned on.
Tim and Ralph ran to the nearby garage where the cars used by News Reporters were stored. They took the first machine available, a light, speedy roadster. Tim climbed behind the wheel and they shot out of the garage. Traffic down town was in a tangled jam that would take an hour to clear for the rumbling explosions from the oil tanks had alarmed the entire city. Many people, believing that the city was about to fall on their heads, had hurried to their cars in an attempt to flee to the open country. Now they were just as anxious to return to their homes.
By sliding through alleys, Tim managed to get to a fairly clear boulevard that led to the airport. A light breeze had started to clear the smoke from the air and Tim stepped on the accelerator. The indicator on the speedometer climbed steadily—forty, forty-five and fifty miles an hour.
“Look out,” cried Ralph, “Or we’ll be picked up for speeding.”