“Sure, I know there’s trouble,” the night chief said, “but we aren’t moving any of our mail planes. It would be suicide to attempt to fly tonight.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Slim Bollei.
“It’s the governor at Laramie,” replied the night chief. “There’s been a bad outbreak of diphtheria at Lytton, a village up against the Montana line in the country that God forgot. The doctor there is out of serum and a couple of the youngsters are desperately ill. There’s plenty of serum here and the governor wants us to get a plane through.”
The night chief turned back to the telephone.
“But I tell you, governor, it can’t be done. You can’t see a hundred feet through this storm and the temperature’s down to five below zero and dropping fast.”
“Wait a minute,” cut in Slim Bollei. “Find out what’s the least possible time the serum can be used and do any good.”
“They’ve got to have it before tomorrow night,” said the night chief when the governor’s reply came to him. “Everything else that’s tried to get to Lytton has failed. It’s a plane or nothing at all.”
“Tell him we’ll get through some way,” snapped Slim. “We can’t let kids die without trying.”
“But we can’t afford to wreck one of the new ships,” protested the night chief.
“I’ll take one of the old tri-motors. Tell the governor we’ll get through.”