“The joke of it all,” commented the other reporter, who was not without his own sense of humor, “is that these absurdities all happen to be practicalities. There’s a little more.”
“Weighing 520 pounds each,” continued Stewart, “and with a speed of 1,500 revolutions a minute, these big turbines generate 972 horsepower, natural brake test, and this may be raised to above a thousand horsepower without danger. Revolving in opposite directions they do away with dangerous gyroscopic action. Power is applied to the propellers by magnalium gearing. These are geared up, instead of down, as has always been the practice, and the new ‘moon propellers’ gain in thrust with high speed instead of losing it. This is because of greater compression of the air and a vacuum set up ahead of the blades by reason of their high speed. The car itself—”
At this moment—now after two o’clock—Mr. Latimer suddenly appeared at Stewart’s side.
“Needn’t write any more,” he said sharply. “The story isn’t going to be printed. The managing editor wants to see you at once.”
CHAPTER IV
THE AIRSHIP BOYS MAKE THEIR APPEARANCE
To be ordered to the office of the managing editor in this summary manner at half-past two o’clock in the morning was enough to set an older reporter than Buck Stewart guessing—Buck because his given name was Buckingham. Buck’s first thought was that he would now be asked to explain why he had persisted in expanding a column story into twice that space. Somewhat to his gratification Mr. Latimer escorted him to the office of the head of the paper.
The young reporter had never even seen his distantly removed superior. He had heard that the august editor looked like a preacher. He knew that the “boss” was one of the greatest journalists in the world. Then, instead of speculating on the cause for his summons, he began to wonder how the “M. E.” happened to be in his office at that late hour. The real reason was that the editor had entertained friends at the theatre and lingered long at the supper after. But in Buck’s mind, it could only be because the books on “How to be a Journalist” all said the real newspaper man is always at the right place in a news crisis.
Without a question to his guide, the young newspaper man deferentially followed Mr. Latimer down the long, half-lit hall, through the ground glass door into the anteroom where, in the day time, a colored Cerebus sat in state, and thence into the not over-large room of the director of the great paper. The managing editor, in evening clothes and a crumpled shirt, was slowly exhaling the smoke of a cigar while he examined a large wall map of America and Europe—tracing with a long, white finger a curved red line that marked some steamer course. On the approach of Mr. Latimer and Stewart, the editor turned, motioned Buck to a chair and seated himself in the one at his own desk. There was no introduction. The night city editor took a leaning position against a big table in silence.
“This is Mr. Stewart, I believe,” the managing editor began with a smile as he leaned forward and nervously tore a strip of paper into bits. The smile rather increased Buck’s alarm. He was sure he was in for nothing but criticism and the smile made him fearful that this was to come in ironical words.