“No chance,” replied Tim. “All the police are at the fire. We’ve got to make time if we want good pictures.”
Tim and Ralph were supremely happy as they sped toward the airport. They were going into the clouds again—into the clouds in quest of the news and the pictures. Barely a year before the News had purchased an airplane and Tim had been assigned the duties of flying reporter. Ralph had been selected to help and Tim had trained his friend as a flyer. Together they had uncovered some of the biggest stories of the year for the News and their exploits had become exceedingly popular with the people of Atkinson.
In their first year of following the sky trails they had flown across the top of the world to prove that the ice and snow of the Arctic did not cover a hitherto unknown continent; Tim had flown down into Old Mexico and secured exclusive photographs of a rebel leader; and together they had brought about the death of the Sky Hawk, a former German war ace who had preyed on the air lines of the middle west.
Now they were off on a new adventure and their hearts beat faster as they neared the airport.
To their right great billows of smoke mounted skyward from the burning storage tanks and occasionally tongues of flame could be seen as the fire made some new conquest.
The airport was just beyond the city limits and its administration building and hangars flanked the boulevard. Tim spun the roadster through the gate and stopped beside hanger No. 5.
The broad doors of the hangar had been rolled open and the Good News, its nose pointed toward the field, was waiting for them.
The metal propeller was turning slowly as the engine idled. The fuselage had been painted a brilliant crimson with the wings a contrast in silver grey.
Carl Hunter, quiet, efficient manager of the field, was waiting for them.
“How does the new engine sound?” asked Tim.