The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Flying Reporter, by Lewis E. (Lewis Edwin) Theiss

THE FLYING REPORTER

By

LEWIS E. THEISS

WILCOX & FOLLETT CO.

PUBLISHERS—1945—CHICAGO

Copyrighted, 1930,

WILCOX & FOLLETT CO.

All rights reserved

The Flying Reporter

Made in United States of America

FOREWORD

It will probably come as a surprise to many readers to know that when this story was written, more than one hundred American newspapers owned and operated airplanes as a regular part of their news-gathering equipment. By the time this tale is between covers, there will doubtless be many additional planes cleaving the skies in the swift search for news, in the carrying of relief to marooned and endangered human beings, in the hunt for those who are lost, in the transportation of news photographs, and not infrequently in the carrying of important papers and documents. For although the primary end of the newspaper is to collect and distribute news, it also carries on a host of activities for the direct benefit of mankind.

Some of these news planes are elaborately equipped for their work, with desks and typewriters for reporters, darkrooms and developing equipment for photographers, and special equipment for the taking of aerial photographs. Some of these planes ordinarily carry as many as four men—a pilot, a mechanic, a camera man, and a reporter. Thus they are equipped for almost any emergency.

Among the eight airplanes used by the Hearst newspaper forces to “cover” the arrival of the Graf Zeppelin on the Pacific Coast were some huge tri-motored ships. One of these was equipped like a real news room. It carried one reporter, one photographer, one announcer, one radio operator and technician. The plane flew two hundred miles along the coast, and sent descriptive stories direct by radio to the Examiner office in Los Angeles, where a short-wave station copied the despatches and rushed them to the editors at their desks.

It would be easy enough to “invent” adventures for news fliers, but it would be foolish to do so for the reason that few “made-up” stories could equal in interest the actual experiences of flying reporters. Consequently, practically all the material in this book is based upon actual occurrences.

The bit of Warren Long’s parachute that Jimmy Donnelly prized so highly is merely the counterpart of a piece of the parachute of that fine young pilot, the late Thomas Nelson. It is from the parachute he had when he stepped out of a burning mail plane at Ringtown, Pa., in the fall of 1929. This keepsake was given to me by Dr. Leigh Breisch, of Lewisburg, Pa., with whose father Pilot Nelson spent several hours after that thrilling leap. His parachute was partly burned, and the bit of silk in my possession is scorched by fire. It is a prized possession, for I knew and greatly admired the dauntless young man who wore it.

The descriptions of the radio beacons are as accurate as the writer can make them. The installation of these beacons marks a great step forward in the development of flying. Radio beacons are being erected as fast as possible along the entire transcontinental airway, and will also be used to guide befogged fliers on other routes.

In the course of this story Jimmy Donnelly awakens a sleeping family whose home was afire, by diving at the house and making as much noise with his plane as possible. On various occasions Air Mail pilots have done exactly this thing. That excellent flier and former Air Mail pilot, Paul Collins, is one of the airmen who performed this trick.

Covering floods, scouting out the marooned and helpless, and making aerial surveys of districts suffering from great calamities, is a commonplace among news fliers. Time and again they have carried food and medicine and clothing, and even newspapers, to persons marooned in floods or on ice-blocked islands or on stranded ships. In this story Jimmy Donnelly transports the stereotype matrixes from a flooded newspaper office to another newspaper plant miles distant, where the stereotype plates are cast and the edition printed. This thing actually happened in the Middle West, when a flier took the “mats” of the Hutchinson (Kans.) News and Herald to the plant of the Wichita Eagle, where the papers were printed and then rushed back by plane to Hutchinson for distribution in that city.

Many of the incidents pictured in the chapter about the New Hampshire flood are actual occurrences.

Incredible though it may seem, even the affair with the bootlegger, in which Jimmy Donnelly is forced to fly a rum runner to Canada, actually happened. Shirley Short, former Air Mail pilot and flier for the Chicago Daily News, told me the story. Hamilton Lee, piloting a plane for the Chicago Tribune, transported food to folks marooned on an island in Lake Michigan. A bootlegger, flying over the island at the same time, broke a connecting rod bearing and got down safely, although his engine was torn half out of his plane. He clapped a pistol to Lee’s head and forced Lee to carry him the rest of the way to the mainland. For the purpose of this story it was necessary to transfer the incident to Lake Ontario, but that does not alter the essential truthfulness of the tale.

The fact is that almost everything in this book is based upon an actual occurrence, or was suggested to me by fliers as the result of their experiences. I mention this fact because, although this book is purely a piece of fiction, the purpose of the book is to show the part that fliers play in news coverage. Hence it had to be truthful in essence.

For material and other assistance, the writer is indebted to many persons connected with the business of flying. In particular I wish to express my indebtedness to Pilot Warren J. White, of Albany, who “flew” the New York Times from Albany to Lake Placid. Mr. White has had years of experience as pilot and manager of flying enterprises. He supplied much material, suggested many situations and incidents for this book, and finally checked the manuscript for inaccuracies and “touched up” the flying technique to give that part of the story a truly professional air. To Mr. C. G. Andrus, chief of the Eastern Division of the Airways Weather Bureau, I have long been indebted for information concerning the work of the forecasters in aiding pilots. To these men and to many others who have assisted me in the work of collecting material for flying-stories, I wish to express my hearty thanks.

News fliers do the most remarkable things and have the most wonderful adventures. But like most other things connected with the business of collecting news, these adventures are seldom heard of excepting in newspaper or flying circles. If this story makes these achievements more evident to readers, the writer will be gratified.

Lewis Edwin Theiss.

Lewisburg, Penna.

Table of Contents

I—Jimmy Donnelly Scents a Story in a Scorched Piece of Parachute

II—A Flight in Quest of News

III—Jimmy Meets an Old Friend—Johnnie Lee, of the Wireless Patrol

IV—Jimmy Makes Good

V—The Long Flight to a Fire

VI—Flying Blind Over the Graveyard of Airplanes

VII—A Forced Landing in a Fog

VIII—Jimmy Saves a Boyhood Friend

IX—Covering a Great Flood by Airplane

X—Jimmy Visits a Lightship off the Coast

XI—Jimmy is Tricked by His Rival

XII—Jimmy Lands a Job for Johnnie

XIII—Jimmy Has an Adventure with a Bootlegger

XIV—Taking Help to Marooned Islanders

XV—Jimmy Joins the Caterpillar Club

XVI—The Bootlegger Repays Jimmy’s Kindness

XVII—Jimmy Triumphs Over Rand

The Flying Reporter

CHAPTER I

Jimmy Donnelly Scents a Story in a Scorched Piece of Parachute

Jimmy Donnelly had just arrived at the hangar at the Long Island flying field where his plane was housed. To be sure, the plane really wasn’t Jimmy’s, because it belonged to the New York Morning Press; but Jimmy was its pilot, and had flown it ever since that great newspaper had decided that it must have a plane of its own. And Jimmy had piloted it so long, and had taken such loving care of it, that he felt as though it were his very own. Indeed, he could not have lavished more attention on the plane if it had been his own. He was forever polishing and cleaning it, and checking over the engine, and keeping it tuned up to concert pitch.

But just now Jimmy was not thinking about his plane. The morning mail lay before him on the table in the little hangar office. There were the daily papers, some circulars, and several letters. Jimmy had already slit the letters open. The one he picked out of the bunch was a rather bulky letter that bore, in the upper left hand corner, this return address: Warren Long, Hadley Airport, New Brunswick, N. J. But Jimmy did not need to read this return address to know from whom the letter came. He recognized the handwriting instantly. That was why he selected this letter in preference to any other letter, to read first.

He knew perfectly well that it was from his old friend Warren Long, dean of Air Mail fliers, the pilot who had helped him to get into the U. S. Air Mail Service as a “grease monkey,” and who had afterward assisted him up the ladder, rung by rung, until he, Jimmy, had attained his present enviable position as a flying reporter for the New York Morning Press.

Jimmy wondered why Warren Long had written to him. He opened the envelope eagerly.

Out dropped what looked like a white silk handkerchief. Jimmy was more puzzled than ever. With growing curiosity he pulled the letter from the envelope, spread it out on his desk, and read as follows:

Dear Jimmy:

Last night I had occasion to join the Caterpillar Club. It is odd how a fellow’s brain works at such times. As I was on my way to the ground I thought of you. Why I should think of you at such a time I do not know. But I did, and I said to myself, “Jimmy would like a piece of this parachute. He’s always collecting souvenirs.” So when I got my feet on solid ground once more, I cut a piece of silk out of the ’chute, which was already badly torn by the bushes, and here it is. You may like to add it to your museum.

I suppose you’ll read in the daily paper about my losing the mail. I’m all cut up about it. This is the first cargo I ever lost in ten years of flying the mail. I tried to save it, but it was impossible. You see, my plane somehow caught fire. I tried to extinguish the flames; but the fire must have been in the crank-case or somewhere where the extinguisher fluid couldn’t touch it. Then I tried to reach the nearest emergency landing field; but my engine went dead. The flames were spreading fast and shooting back into the cockpit in sheets. There was nothing to do but step out. My, how I hated to abandon the mail. But I had no choice. So I disconnected my head phones from the instrument board, picked up my flashlight, and stepped out.

The instant I did so the plane turned on her side and dived straight after me. It was interesting to watch it. I was evidently falling head down, for I could see everything without even turning my eyes. My ship plunged like a rocket stick. She was just one long streak of fire. I thought sure she was going to hit me. I tried to crowd over and get out of the way. You can’t imagine what a funny, helpless feeling a fellow has when he can’t touch anything with either his hands or his feet. Anyway, the ship just grazed me, but a miss is as good as a mile. The instant she was past I started to pull the rip-cord. I found my flash-light was in my right hand. I had to shift it to my left hand. That didn’t take very long, but I was then so near the ground that every second counted. I made the shift and gave the rip-cord a quick jerk. It wasn’t a moment too soon, either. While I was floating down the rest of the way to the earth I thought of you.

While I was still in the air, my ship hit with a terrific explosion. It was utterly consumed. Everything about it was burned. Much of the metal was melted by the terrible heat. The place where I came down was nearly half a mile from the spot where the ship landed. There was a thick woods between me and the ship. I could see the glare of the fire plainly, and I hurried right over to the spot. A lad from the neighborhood helped me. Some farmers were already there.

I am sending this bit of my ’chute for you to add to your collection, as I said, and I also write to tell you that if you ever have to step out of your ship at night, be sure to take your flashlight. I found mine more than useful. For I landed in a scrub patch on a hillside. It was rough country and I was far from being at my best. But with the aid of my flash-light and the help of the lad I mentioned I had no trouble in getting to my plane, and later in reaching a town.

I hope everything is going well with you. The best of luck to you.

Ever your friend,

Warren Long.

Jimmie stared at the letter incredulously. For a moment he was silent. Then, “Thank God Warren wasn’t hurt!” he cried. “I wonder where it happened. And I wonder where Warren is now. And how in time did he get that letter to me so quickly?”

For a time Jimmy was silent, thinking the matter over. Presently he thought he had solved the problem. “Warren left Hadley with the 9:35 p. m. section of the mail,” he muttered. “The fire probably occurred before he had been flying more than an hour or so. He was likely near some town where he could catch a late train, and he probably got back to Hadley early this morning. He must have written this note at once and got it into a mail for New York. It was mighty quick work, no matter how he did it. And it was just like Warren Long. He wanted to tell me about the flash-light and was afraid he would never think to mention it when he saw me. Gee! I am sure glad to have this piece of his ’chute. You bet I’ll put it in my ‘museum,’ as he calls my little collection of aviation keepsakes. Who wouldn’t be glad to have a piece of Warren Long’s parachute?”

Jimmy picked up the little square of silk and smoothed it lovingly. The fabric was creamy white, beautifully woven, with a lovely sheen. It was thin and delicate and almost gauzy in effect, and one could hardly believe that so delicate a fabric could possibly have withstood the terrific strain imposed upon it when it suddenly opened by Warren Long’s two hundred pounds—for with his heavy flying suit and the ’chute pack itself, the pilot must easily have weighed as much as that.

In one corner of the square of silk was a dark, scorched space.

“Gee!” said Jimmy. “That fire was a lot nearer getting Warren Long than he intimated. But that is like him. He would hardly have mentioned it if he had had a leg burned off. If his parachute got scorched like that, he certainly had a close call himself. I know that, all right.”

Jimmy spread the square of silk on his desk and smoothed it out with his hand. It had evidently been roughly and hastily cut from the parachute. The edges were jagged and uneven. “I’ll get some woman to trim these edges and overcast them,” thought Jimmy. “Then the silk can’t unravel. And if I ever should want to use it as a handkerchief, I could.”

A sudden thought came to him. Hastily he folded and thrust the bit of silk into the envelope. Then he reached for the Morning Press.

“I wonder what the paper says about the affair,” he muttered.

The item he was searching for Jimmy found on the front page, near the bottom of column six. It was a brief story, hardly three inches long, telling how Long’s plane had caught fire and how the pilot had jumped from the burning ship, after finding that he could not extinguish the blaze. Jimmy read the story and frowned.

“Some country correspondent who doesn’t know a good story when he sees one sent that in,” growled Jimmy, indignantly. “Why, it’s evident from Warren’s letter that he had a most startling experience, with that flaming ship diving straight at him, while he was utterly powerless to help himself. That’s great human interest stuff. It ought to be good for half a column any day. And if we had the details, I’ll bet there’d be a front page spread in it.”

With Jimmy, to think was to act. He reached for the telephone.

“Please give me the Morning Press,” he told the telephone operator.

A moment later he was talking to the city editor of that paper.

“Mr. Davis,” he said, “I have just been reading the story about Warren Long’s parachute jump last night. I have had a note from Warren Long, too. It seems that when he stepped out of the burning plane he fell head first, and in that position he watched the plane as he dropped. The ship turned over almost as soon as he stepped out of her and dived straight at him, like a flaming arrow. Warren didn’t dare open his ’chute for fear the plane would foul it and he would be killed. So he just kept on falling head first, watching the blazing plane as it tore after him, and hoping the thing would pass him clean and in time. For he wasn’t very high up when he jumped. The ship barely missed him as it shot by. The instant it was past, Warren yanked his rip-cord, and it wasn’t a moment too soon, either. The ’chute opened and kept him up in the air for a few seconds, while the ship hit the ground with a tremendous explosion. The fire that followed was terrific. Fortunately, the wind blew Warren well to one side. But he must have been burned some before he jumped, for he sent me a bit of his parachute, and the silk is badly scorched.”

“Do you know where Warren Long is now?” asked the city editor.

“No, sir. But I suspect he came back to Hadley Airport on a train, and is probably at his home in Plainfield.”

“The story we printed is an A. P. despatch,” said Mr. Davis. “All the papers will have it. Likely that is all the story any of them will carry. We ought to be able to get a good exclusive follow-up story. I’ll send a man over to Hadley to get into touch with Long and get all the details from him. Meantime, I wish you would fly over to Ringtown, where the crash occurred, get all the facts you can there, and take pictures of the burned plane, the spot where the plane crashed, and anything else that will help the story.”

“All right, Mr. Davis. I’ll be off as soon as I can get my plane warmed up. Be sure to tell the man you send to see Warren Long that I want Warren to give him the whole story. Otherwise he won’t talk. But he’ll do anything for me. Good-bye. I’m off.”

CHAPTER II

A Flight in Quest of News

Fairly atremble with eagerness, Jimmy ran out into the hangar and made a rapid inspection of his plane, to see that everything was right. He glanced at the wheels, to see that the chocks were in front of them, then scrambled into the cabin and touched the starter. His engine answered with a roar. Jimmy throttled it down until it was idling gently. For a moment he sat listening to it. Then, satisfied, he climbed out of the ship, and set about completing his preparations for the task ahead of him.

Had Jimmy been a little more experienced in newspaper work he would not have been so excited about this simple assignment that Mr. Davis had given him. All he had to do was to fly a hundred miles or so, gather a few facts, take a few pictures, and get back as quickly as possible. But there was no need to hurry, as there would have been had it been late in the day. Nevertheless, Jimmy was all atingle with enthusiasm and eagerness. He could hardly wait to be at his task.

Jimmy had always been like that about anything in which he was interested. He put his whole soul into whatever he was doing. Doubtless he owed his present job to that very fact. For after he had lost his place as a reserve mail pilot, when Uncle Sam quit flying the mails, Jimmy had really created this present job for himself. He had told Mr. Tom Johnson, the managing editor of the Morning Press, that that newspaper ought to have its own plane and its own pilot. And when Mr. Johnson said that that was the last thing the Morning Press needed, Jimmy had decided to prove to Mr. Johnson that the newspaper really did need a plane and a pilot even though the managing editor thought otherwise. Jimmy proved his point by volunteering to execute two difficult commissions for the Morning Press and then by succeeding in each commission. And in each case he owed his success to his enthusiasm, his whole-hearted devotion to his task, and his refusal to be defeated. In each case perseverance had won for him.

First, he had volunteered to find Warren Long, when that veteran pilot was lost in “the graveyard of airplanes,” as the mail pilots call that vast and terrible mountain wilderness in western Pennsylvania. And he had found him, after all other searchers had been baffled. He had found him disabled by a broken leg, in the path of an advancing forest fire, after a terrible forced landing. The story of that adventure is told in “The Search for the Lost Mail Plane.” Thus, for the second time, Jimmy had saved the life of this brother pilot that he loved so well. The first time was when Warren Long’s plane fell into the Susquehanna River immediately in front of Jimmy’s home, and Jimmy had swum out in the icy water and rescued the unconscious pilot. The account of that rescue is given in “Piloting the U. S. Air Mail,” That occurrence marked the beginning of the devoted friendship between this older pilot and the youthful Jimmy. So it is easy to see why Warren Long sent a bit of his parachute to Jimmy, who was interested in collecting such things, and why Jimmy told his city editor that Warren Long would do anything for him.

The second commission that Jimmy had executed for the Morning Press was the running down of a gang of robbers after one of them had looted a mail plane that had crashed one stormy night in this selfsame “graveyard of airplanes.” The story of that thief chase is told in “Trailing the Air Mail Bandit.” It was a long, hard chase, too; and one which Jimmy would never have won had it not been for these very same qualities of enthusiasm, determination, and perseverance. For in this case Jimmy had had to work against the greatest obstacles and the most incredible discouragements.

In both cases he won; and his success did far more than merely clear up two mysteries. It convinced Mr. Johnson that Jimmy was right when he argued that the Morning Press ought to add a flier to its staff. Mr. Johnson added one; and quite naturally he chose Jimmy. Thus it was that Jimmy’s job, like his plane, was brand-new.

Although Jimmy had handled these two big stories successfully, though of course he had considerable help, he didn’t feel any too sure of himself yet as a reporter. For during the short time that he had been a regular member of the Morning Press staff, there had been few stories on which Jimmy could work. Mostly he had been doing tasks of the fetch-and-carry sort. He had transported pictures and camera men and reporters. But he had had little opportunity for independent news gathering. Hence he welcomed this present chance with such eagerness.

But even though Jimmy was not yet a seasoned reporter, there was one quality he possessed that made up for much that he still lacked. He had a naturally keen news sense. He was gifted with what newspaper men call a “nose for news.” He felt the dramatic possibilities in everything he heard and saw. He seemed to sense the facts that should be secured in order to make the most of a story. That was why he at once saw that the tale in the morning paper about Warren Long was faulty, that the correspondent had failed to secure the dramatic elements in the story that would appeal most to people. That was why Jimmy knew there was a real human interest story in this thrilling leap from a burning plane. It was this keen news sense that now made Jimmy so eager to get the facts—the significant facts—that the correspondent had failed to secure. Jimmy wanted to make good. He wanted to help his paper “scoop” all the other newspapers in New York. He believed he could do it. That was why he was all atremble with eagerness. Like a race-horse at the barrier, he was restive and impatient to go.

But though Jimmy was green in the newspaper game, he was well seasoned in the flying business. He had had too much experience to take anything for granted. Hence, while his plane was warming up, Jimmy made sure that he was prepared for any emergency. He saw to it that his flash-light was in its place and in good working order. That was the first thing he thought of. In future it would always be the first thing he thought of. Warren Long’s letter had made an indelible impression on his mind. He saw that the plane contained a little case of emergency rations that he habitually carried. He made sure his pistol was in place. That was a piece of equipment most fliers lacked. Mail pilots are compelled to carry pistols, and Jimmy had formed the habit of flying armed, while he was in the mail service. Experience had shown him the wisdom of having a firearm at hand in his ship. He made sure that he had his topographic maps and other articles that he had found to be necessary or desirable. Of course he put his camera aboard, with a plentiful supply of films.

After a final close inspection of the plane, Jimmy put on his ’chute and snapped it fast. Then he climbed into the cabin, glanced at the instruments, held the stick back, and shoved the throttle forward. No longer was there the staccato of exploding gases, but instead a thundering roar. Jimmy kept her wide open while he noted the maximum number of revolutions his propeller was making, his oil temperature and oil pressure. Then he switched from one “mag” to the other, but noticed no difference in “revs.” Gradually Jimmy throttled her down to a murmur. She was perfect!

An attendant came forward and pointed to the chocks. Jimmy nodded “O. K.” As the attendant pulled the chocks from the wheels, Jimmy glanced at the wind-sock on his hangar. Then he taxied slowly down the field. He headed into the wind and gave her full gun. The ship accelerated rapidly. With a thundering roar the ship took off gracefully, guided by an experienced hand and brain. Jimmy was off on his assignment.

He cut over to the very edge of Long Island and followed the southern shore-line. Over the Bay and across the southern end of Staten Island he winged his way, heading south of west, to pick up the route of the Air Mail. Long before he crossed the Delaware, near Easton, he was right on the line. How much like old times it seemed, to be flying over the beacon lights. To be sure, they were not flashing now, in the morning light, but he knew where the towers were and he saw each one as he flew over it, where it stood like a friendly sentinel, to point out the path.

In the clear light of day Jimmy had no need of guide-posts or flashing lights or radio signals. He knew the route as well as a schoolboy knows the way to the high school. But Jimmy’s plane was equipped with radio, and ear phones were built into his flying helmet. Presently he “plugged in” to his instrument board to see if he could pick up the weather. That is a topic of constant interest to every flier. He had barely passed Numidia before he heard the Bellefonte radio man sending out his hourly weather report. “This is station WWQ, Airways Communication Station, Bellefonte, Pa., broadcasting weather information on the Chicago-New York airway. It is now 10 A. M. Eastern Standard Time. At Hadley Field, N. J., scattered clouds, ceiling unlimited, visibility eight miles, wind south, nine miles, temperature 50, dewpoint 29, barometer 29.98; Allentown, Pa., scattered clouds, ceiling unlimited, visibility seven miles, wind southeast, four miles, temperature 51, barometer 29.94. Park Place, Pa., broken clouds, ceiling estimated four thousand, visibility ten miles, wind southeast, fourteen miles, temperature 45, barometer 29.89; Sunbury, Pa., overcast light haze, ceiling estimated twenty-five hundred, visibility four miles, wind calm, temperature 50, barometer 29.81; Numidia, Pa., overcast light haze, occasional sprinkles of rain, ceiling twenty-four hundred, visibility three miles, wind southwest, five miles, temperature 49, barometer 29.79. This concludes the broadcast of weather information from station WWQ, Bellefonte, Pa.”

“That sounds good to me,” thought Jimmy. “I ought to get over to Ringtown and back to Long Island without having to face any bad weather. I’m certainly glad of it, for I’ll have enough trouble as it is.”

He flew on, his head phones still plugged in. Sounding endlessly he could hear the steady stroke of the Air Mail radio beacon sending a string of dashes—“dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” which tells the pilot when he is exactly on the line. Jimmy had small need of any such help this morning, for the air was so clear that he could see for miles in every direction. But he thought of the invaluable help this radio beacon must be to the mail pilots in the fog. The device had been perfected since Jimmy was a mail pilot. He had never carried mail under its guidance. But he was as well equipped to profit by it as any mail pilot was. More than once he had been helped in bad weather by this very same signal, as he flew along the mail route.

In a sense he was helped now. A little breeze had been coming up, that blew across the line of flight. Jimmy was being blown to one side, without realizing it. Of course he would presently have noticed that fact anyway, and brought his ship back to the line, but the signal in his ears gave him prompt warning. No longer did he hear the steady beat: “dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah.” Instead, the head phones were saying: “dot dah, dot dah, dot dah, dot dah, dot dah.” The radio signal had changed to dot dash, dot dash. That told Jimmy that he was to the left of the line. He knew that if he had chanced to be on the right side of the line instead, the signals would have changed to dash dot, dash dot, and his head phones would have said: “dah dot, dah dot, dah dot, dah dot.” He nosed his ship a little into the wind, and presently he was right over the line once more, and the head phones again were singing: “dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah.”

“Gee,” thought Jimmy, “if only they had had the radio beacon from the start, how very many tragedies the Air Mail would have been saved. It’s fine for the men who are carrying the mail now. They always know when they are on the line, even if it is so foggy they can’t see a thing. If it just weren’t for these old Pennsylvania mountains, flying the eastern leg of the Air Mail would be pie. But I guess this leg will always be a graveyard. Hello, here’s Ringtown. I’ve got to be thinking about getting down.”

CHAPTER III

Jimmy Meets an Old Friend—Johnnie Lee, of the Wireless Patrol

For many miles—ever since he crossed the Delaware into Pennsylvania, in fact, Jimmy had been flying over a region so rough and rugged that it strikes terror to the heart of the aviator. For here Nature has plowed up the land in rugged furrows that rise thousands of feet. In places the earth is jumbled in confused masses. Rocks, trees, precipices, bogs, and deep ravines characterize the whole countryside. Rare, indeed, is the level spot that is large enough, or smooth enough, or firm enough to permit a safe landing. And well Jimmy knew what awaited him or any other aviator who was luckless enough to be forced down in this terrible region. And yet this country was tame beside that of the “graveyard of airplanes” in the western half of the state. It was here, when he was fairly in the heart of these terrible mountains, that Warren Long had found his plane afire. As Jimmy looked down now at the torn and jagged face of the country, he fairly shivered when he thought of the terrible situation in which his friend had been placed such a short time previously. For it was obviously impossible to land a plane safely in these ragged hills, especially in the dark; and to Jimmy it seemed almost as dangerous to trust to a parachute. For there was no way by which the falling flier could tell when he was about to land with a crash on a rock, or a jagged stump, or in the splintering arms of a pine-tree—no way, it came to Jimmy as an afterthought, unless he carried a flash-light powerful enough to pierce the blackness of the night. And Jimmy felt again that same feeling of gratitude to Uncle Sam that he had felt many a time previously for the little emergency landing fields along the lighted airway that the Government has spied out and marked off with encircling lights at night, where aviators in distress can land in safety.

It was one of these emergency fields—that at Ringtown—which Warren Long had been striving to reach on the preceding night. And it was this same field that Jimmy was now heading for.

Jimmy had been flying rather high. Gently pulling back the throttle, he went into a steep spiral. At about eight hundred feet he straightened up while he glanced at the wind-sock. “Bang” went the gun again, and Jimmy flew around the edge of the field into the wind. The field was none too large. Tall trees on the lee side of it called for plenty of energetic side-slipping and fish-tailing. Jimmy straightened her out, held her off to lose flying speed, and as soon as he felt the wheels touch hauled back on the stick and stepped on his brakes. Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief and thanked his lucky stars for those brakes, for the ship came to rest within twenty-five feet of a stone fence. In another moment he was taxiing safely across the field toward the beacon light tower, where a knot of men and boys had gathered, waiting for Jimmy’s ship to come to rest.

Jimmy throttled down his engine to let it idle for a few minutes so the valves could cool before he “cut his switch.” He stepped to the ground. The little company of spectators surged toward him.

“Can any one of you tell me——” began Jimmy. Then he stopped short and gazed at one of the group in silent astonishment. “Well, where in the world did you come from, Johnnie Lee?” he demanded, after a moment. And he stepped quickly toward a sturdy lad who stood somewhat behind the other spectators. “I haven’t seen you for ages—not since I left home to learn to fly, in fact.”

“Jimmy!” cried the lad, rushing forward with outstretched hand. “I didn’t know you at first, with your helmet on. I’m awfully glad to see you.” And he fairly wrung Jimmy’s hand.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Jimmy, when they had finished shaking hands.

“I might ask you the same question,” laughed Johnnie. “I am here because I can’t very well help it. My father’s health broke down, and the doctor said he would have to get into the country. We have relatives close by named Healy. So Dad bought a little farm here. I’ve been at home, doing most of the farming. You are the first member of the old Wireless Patrol I have seen since we moved down here. My! It’s been tough to be separated from all the gang. I think of the old days often, and of the fine times we used to have when we were in camp at Fort Brady.”

“They were good old days, weren’t they, Johnnie?” said Jimmy. “How the old crowd has gotten separated. There’s Alec Cunningham down in New Jersey in the oyster business, and Roy Mercer a wireless operator on an ocean steamer, and Bob Martin in the Lighthouse Service, and Henry Harper in the Coast Guard. My, it doesn’t seem possible that the old crowd could be scattered so. Can you tell me about any of the other fellows of the Wireless Patrol?”

“I can tell you a whole lot about Jimmy Donnelly,” laughed Johnnie.

“How’s that?” demanded Jimmy. “What do you know about me and how did you find it out?”

“You don’t think anybody could have all the adventures you have had, finding lost air mail pilots and rounding up robbers and not have people know about it, do you? Why, I read about those things in the newspaper.”

“That reminds me,” said Jimmy, “that I am here now for the Morning Press, to get more details about Warren Long’s parachute jump last night. You can’t tell me anything about it, can you?”

“I certainly can,” said Johnnie, “for I saw the whole thing happen, and the pilot landed right on our farm and I helped him get back to his burning ship to try to save some of the mail.”

“Well, if that isn’t luck,” said Jimmy. “Take me to the burned plane, will you, and tell me what you know about the affair.”

“All right. Come along,” and Johnnie led the way toward a clearing on the slope of a hill at some little distance.

The way was rough, for they had to pass over some stony fields and through a patch of timber. They had ample time to talk as they walked.

“How did you happen to see Warren Long’s burning plane?” asked Jimmy.

“I was looking for it.”

“Looking for it! What do you mean?”

“Just what I say. I was looking for it, though I had no idea it was going to be afire. You see, ever since you got into the Air Mail, Jimmy, I have been interested in the mail planes. I have always hoped that one of them would land here. And as long as you were a mail pilot I guess I was always hoping that you would be piloting the ship that stopped here. Well, I got so much interested in the mail planes that I kept right on watching for them, even after you left the service. You know the first night mail plane always comes over here just about bedtime, and I almost always step out-of-doors and watch it sail over.”

“I know how you feel,” said Jimmy.

“Well,” continued Johnnie, “when I heard the mail plane coming last night I stepped outside as usual, and there was the plane. But something was wrong. It was afire. You could see the flames plainly. It flew in a crazy fashion——”

“That must have been while Warren Long was fighting the flames,” interrupted Jimmy.

“And it went sailing by pretty fast. For a time the fire seemed to die down, and I thought the pilot had it about out. Then it burst out worse than ever. By this time the plane was a long way past here. But it turned and headed back. I knew right away that the pilot was trying to reach the field where you just landed. I called to Dad that a plane was on fire and was heading for the landing field, and that maybe we could help save the ship if we got to the field in time. So we set out together for the field.”

“Do you live far from it?” inquired Jimmy.

“About half a mile, I suppose, though our land runs clear down to the landing field. Anyway, before we were half-way to the field we saw that the pilot would never make it. The whole airplane seemed to be aflame. It was fairly spouting fire from all sides. I knew the pilot would have to jump, and I couldn’t understand why he stayed with the ship half as long as he did.”

“You would if you knew Warren Long,” interrupted Jimmy. “That was just like him. He risked his life to try to save the mail.”

“He risked it, all right,” said Johnnie. “His plane was just a mass of flames. I don’t see why he wasn’t burned to death right in the cockpit. I just stood still and held my breath while I waited for him to jump.”

“Did you see him when he did jump?”

“See him? Why, you could see everything. The whole sky was as light as day. Out he came in a tremendous dive right through a sheet of flame. I never breathed while I waited for him to open his parachute. Do you know what happened? It was awful.”

“What was awful?” demanded Jimmy.

“Why, that burning ship turned over on its side the instant the pilot left it and dived straight after him. I thought sure the plane was going to crash into him. It was frightful to watch. My heart simply stopped beating while that plane roared after him. And the pilot was as cool as an icicle. He just kept on falling and falling and never moved a muscle. As the plane shot by him I thought it had struck him, and I cried right out. But somehow the plane missed him and shot down like a flaming meteor. Gee! You should have seen what happened then. Your friend had his parachute open the instant the blazing ship had passed him.”

“How high was he?”

“Not very high. Just a few hundred feet. But the wind caught his parachute instantly and snapped it open with a jerk. I could see the pilot spin around like a weather-vane in a wind squall. You know he was falling head foremost all this time, and the parachute jerked him upright quicker than you could wink your eye. It must have given him an awful jolt.”

“What happened then?” demanded Jimmy.

“Why, Dad and I separated. He ran toward the plane, to try to save the mail, but I never gave a thought to the mail. I ran to help the pilot. I couldn’t help thinking that after all it might be you, Jimmy. You know a fellow can never be sure just who’s in a plane.”

“That was mighty kind of you, Johnnie. But I wasn’t in the plane, and that lets me out of the story. What did you do when you reached the pilot?”

“I got to him soon after he hit the ground. He was all tangled up in his parachute, for he had come down in some scrub growth and the cords were twisted among the stems, and the parachute itself was fast in some bushes. He had landed pretty hard, too, and was half stunned. And he wrenched one of his ankles badly. Maybe it’s sprained. Anyway, I helped him to get out of his harness, and I told him just to sit down and take it easy while I gathered up the parachute. But he didn’t want to wait an instant. He said he had to get to the ship to try to save the mail. So he just snatched out his knife and cut a big piece out of the parachute, and then we hurried over to the burning ship as fast as he could walk. He never said a word, but I know his ankle must have hurt him terribly.”

“Did you save any of the mail?”

“No. When we got there the fire was so hot you couldn’t get anywhere near the ship. Dad and some other men had tried to pull some mail-sacks out of the plane, but it just wasn’t possible. The fire was too hot. I wasn’t much interested in the mail or even in the plane. I couldn’t think of anything but the pilot. He looked awful. When we got near the burning ship, where it was light enough to see him well, I noticed at once that his eyebrows and lashes were burned off, his face was badly scorched and his hands were burned almost raw. It’s a wonder he wasn’t burned to a crisp.”

“His flying suit and his helmet and goggles saved him,” said Jimmy. “What I can’t understand is why he didn’t jump sooner. He must have known well enough that the ship was doomed.”

“He did. I asked him why he stayed in it so long, and he told me that he couldn’t leave the ship any sooner because it might have fallen on some of the homes beneath him. You see he was right over the town. So he just kept right on flying, with the flames all about him, until he was sure he was clear of the town. What do you think of that?”

“I am not surprised. In fact, I should be surprised if he had done anything else. It’s exactly the sort of thing Warren Long would do.”

“It was the bravest thing I ever heard of,” said Johnnie.

“Could you do anything for him?” demanded Jimmy. “His burns must have been very painful.”

“Sure we did. I took him home with me and mother put some grease on his face and bandaged his hands. But he didn’t seem to think about anything except the mail. That evidently worried him. The pilot soon caught a train going east, and that is the last I saw of him.”

“Well, you certainly have given me a vivid account of the affair, Johnnie. You’d make a good reporter.”

“Gee! I’d like to be one. It’s pretty dull out here in these mountains. Dad’s got his health back now and doesn’t really need me any longer. I’ve been looking for a job in town. If you know of any opening I wish you’d tell me about it, Jimmy.”

“I’ll do all I can to help you, Johnnie, though I don’t believe I can do much for you. You see, you have never had any experience as a reporter.”

By this time they had reached the burned airship. Several persons were gathered about it, for ever since daybreak people had been coming from far and near to take a look at it. Jimmy stood for some time viewing the sad wreck.

“Thank God Warren escaped,” he muttered.

Then he slowly walked around the burned plane, trying to find the best point of view from which to get a picture. He took several snaps, from different angles, and then asked Johnnie to guide him to a spot where he could get the best picture of the region. Johnnie took him to a little knoll that rose sharply at no great distance, and from this vantage-point Jimmy secured an excellent picture of the countryside, with the wrecked plane in the very centre of the picture. Then he and Johnnie walked across the country to the spot where Warren Long had landed. The parachute was no longer there, as the remains of it had been gathered up by the crew sent from the Air Mail field to salvage what could be saved from the wreck. But Jimmy was able to see exactly where Warren Long had struck the ground, and to get some good snaps of the place.

“I ought to see your father,” said Jimmy, “and find out exactly what occurred in the effort to save the mail. Besides, I want to see him anyway. I haven’t seen him since—I don’t know when. And I want to see your mother, too.”

“We’ll go over to the house,” replied Johnnie.

“Mother will be there, and Dad is at work somewhere about the place.”

They hurried over to the farmhouse, and found both of Johnnie’s parents right at hand. It was a pleasant meeting, for Jimmy had known the Lees all his life. He had little time for visiting, however. Most of the little visit he spent in asking Mr. Lee questions about the burning plane and the effort to save the mail. When he had all the details he could gather, he said goodbye to Johnnie’s parents. Then the two lads walked back to the landing field.

Jimmy started his engine and let it run a few minutes to get warm. When he was ready to depart, he held out his hand to Johnnie. “I am ever so glad I found you,” he said, “and I am more than grateful to you for what you folks did for Warren Long last night. You have helped me a lot, Johnnie. I won’t forget about you when I get back to New York. If there is anything I can do for you, I will certainly do it. Now I must be off. They want these pictures at the office just as soon as they can get them. Good-bye.” And Jimmy was off.

CHAPTER IV

Jimmy Makes Good

His mind white-hot with the fire of interest, his very soul atremble with eagerness to get the gripping story on paper, Jimmy drove his plane through the air like an eagle cleaving the sky. A stiff west wind that had sprung up hurled him onward. And Jimmy climbed high to get every ounce of help possible, for at the higher altitudes the wind was almost a gale. So he reached his hangar in an amazingly short time. He ran his ship under cover and saw that the gasoline supply was replenished immediately, to prevent the condensation of moisture in the fuel tanks as the ship cooled. Eager though he was to write, Jimmy was taking no chances of getting water in his gasoline. His oil supply was also replenished. These things attended to, Jimmy turned immediately to the business of getting his story ready for print.

A taxi took him speedily to the Morning Press office in Manhattan. There he told his city editor what he had learned. And he told it so eagerly and so convincingly that that usually bored individual sat up and listened with interest.

“If you can put that on paper as well as you tell it,” said the city editor, “you may write three-quarters of a column. We’ll run two or three pictures with it, if they are any good, and play the story up for all it’s worth.”

“What did you learn from Hadley?” asked Jimmy. “Have you heard from the man you sent down there?”

“He couldn’t get a thing at first-hand. Your friend the pilot is in bed, under the doctor’s orders, and could not see our reporter. All the latter could get was what he picked up from men about the airport. There wasn’t anything you don’t have and nothing half so good. So there will be no facts for you from that source. Write what you have, as plainly and simply as you told it to me just now. I’ll send you prints of your photographs as soon as they are done. We ought to have proofs very shortly.”

Jimmy had not expected to write the entire story. Indeed, he had not been certain that he would have a chance to write any of it. The man who had been sent to see Warren Long was an experienced and able reporter, and Jimmy rather expected that this reporter would do the writing, and that all Jimmy could do would be to tell his story to his fellow reporter. But the matter had turned out just the opposite. Jimmy himself was to write the story.

He realized that once more a big chance had come to him. For weeks—ever since he had won his new job, in fact—he had been doing little assignments, hoping every day that something worthwhile would come his way; and now this thing had happened. He meant to make the most of it.

Altogether without realizing it, Jimmy had prepared himself to do a good piece of work. He did not understand that the surest way to write a really great story is to be so full of a subject and to feel the story so intensely that one is just bursting with it. Yet that was exactly the situation Jimmy was in. His love for Warren Long, his admiration for that heroic pilot, and his desire to tell all the world what a truly remarkable thing his friend had done—all this, coupled with Jimmy’s keen sense of the dramatic, had prepared him to write a gripping story. It was the same thing that had happened when he wrote the story of the Air Mail bandit. Jimmy was so full of the subject that he could think of nothing else.

Now he sat down at a typewriter in a corner, where he was not likely to be disturbed, and got ready to write. He had been turning the story over and over in his mind. He wanted to begin it in a way that would catch and hold the imagination of the reader. The feature of the story that appealed to his own imagination most powerfully was the picture of Warren Long sitting in his flaming cockpit and being slowly roasted while he guided his plane away from the little hamlet and out to the uninhabited districts, where it could not possibly fall on a house and burn up some humble home. To Jimmy’s mind that picture was even more compelling than the one of Warren Long’s falling headfirst to earth and calmly waiting for his blazing ship to pass him before he opened his parachute. In almost any other case, this latter picture would have been an unparalleled feature. But to Jimmy, while it was extremely spectacular, it lacked the appeal of the other picture. And Jimmy was right. His news sense in this case was unerring. For Warren Long, risking death in his cockpit in order to save others, was a far more appealing figure than Warren Long doing something spectacularly cool and brave to save his own life.

Jimmy rightly judged that what appealed to him most powerfully would also probably appeal most powerfully to others. So he began his story with this feature of greatest appeal—the picture of Warren Long’s sacrificing himself to save some humble country folk that he didn’t even know. When he had written what he had to say about this, Jimmy took up the story of the pilot’s drop to earth, and the breathtaking experience he had had as his flaming plane dived after him. Finally he told the story, simply but graphically, of how Johnnie Lee had rushed over the rough mountain in the dark to aid the fallen pilot, and how he had taken care of him from the moment he came upon him, entangled in his parachute in the scrub growth, up to the moment that the pilot stepped on the east-bound train.

So full of the story was Jimmy that he heard nothing, saw nothing, thought of nothing but the tale he was putting on paper. Before him he could see the scene he was picturing—see it as vividly as though he were still on the spot. And unconsciously he found himself using almost word for word the vivid description of the accident that Johnnie Lee had given him. His mind was so full of the story that, once he had begun to write, the tale came pouring from his typewriter as tumultuously and sparklingly as a mountain torrent rushes down its rocky bed. When at last he ended his story, he had done a truly fine piece of work. His tale was so fresh and vivid that it could not fail to attract attention. Jimmy, of course, did not realize that. All he knew was that he had done the very best he could. If there was any luck about the story, it was in the matter of the photographs. They were as clear and sharp as Jimmy’s word pictures. And they illuminated the text excellently.

When Jimmy had read the story over and made such corrections as appeared to him desirable, he took it to the city editor. Then, thinking the latter might wish to question him about some of the facts, he sat down and waited until his editor could read the story. Jimmy was right in his guess that Mr. Davis might want to ask about the story. But he was much surprised at the question Mr. Davis put to him.

The latter read the story and then glanced through it a second time. Then he looked at Jimmy. “Where did you get the idea of writing this story as you have written it?” he demanded.

Jimmy felt his heart sink. He was sure he had made a failure. But he answered cheerfully enough: “I wrote it that way, Mr. Davis, because I couldn’t write it any other way. All I could see when I tried to write was Warren Long sitting in his burning cockpit and roasting while he piloted his ship to a point where it wouldn’t do any damage when it came down.”

“Just keep on seeing things that way,” said the city editor. And without another word he picked up the story and the photographs and walked away.

Jimmy left the office somewhat puzzled and almost disconsolate. He felt sure his effort had been a failure. The city editor had not said one good word about it. And yet what did he mean by telling Jimmy to “keep on seeing things that way”? Jimmy was sorely puzzled. But if he could have seen where the city editor went and what he did with the story, Jimmy would have been amazed. For Mr. Davis went straight to the managing editor and laid the manuscript and the pictures on the latter’s desk. All he said was this: “Here is a story young Donnelly just wrote. He flew over to Ringtown to get a follow-up on this morning’s A. P. despatch about the parachute jump of a mail pilot there last night. I wish you’d read it.”

But Jimmy had no way of knowing this, and even if he had had he would hardly have understood the significance of the thing. He could hardly have known what it meant for the city editor thus to call the attention of the managing editor to a story before it got into type. But Jimmy would have been well enough pleased if he could have heard Mr. Johnson mutter to himself, after carefully reading the story, “Well, I guess we made no mistake in making a reporter out of Donnelly. I’ll tell the city editor to try him out on something bigger than the assignments he has been getting.”

So was illustrated the law that “To him that hath shall be given.” Jimmy had demonstrated his ability. And as is always the case, a display of ability was soon followed by greater opportunity.

CHAPTER V

The Long Flight to a Fire

Jimmy’s next chance was not long in coming. A few days after he made his successful trip to Ringtown, Jimmy was called to the telephone in his hangar. Mr. Johnson was speaking.

“We have just had a ‘flash’ from Cleveland,” he said, “to the effect that there has been a terrible disaster in a hospital there. The burning of X-ray films filled the hospital with deadly gases, and apparently scores of people have been killed. We are getting the A. P. service, but the story is so big we should like to have our own man on the spot. I am sending Frank Handley over to you. Be prepared to take off the moment he arrives. You are to cooperate with him in handling the story. Handley knows exactly what I want and will give you directions. We especially want good pictures. In all probability the wires will be clogged with the volume of news matter filed. I am sending you to make sure that we get our story and the pictures. Get them back any way you can—by wire or by plane. But get them back. That is the important thing. Handley is already on his way and should reach you very soon.”

“I’ll be ready for him, Mr. Johnson,” said Jimmy, “and I’ll do my level best to carry out your orders. What is my deadline?”

“We want to be sure to catch the state edition. The presses start at midnight sharp. You ought to be here by eleven, and you must be here by eleven-thirty at the latest.”

“I’ll be there,” said Jimmy, but little could he foresee what it was going to cost him to make good that promise.

He hung up the telephone receiver and skipped out into the hangar to start his engine to warming. Then he gathered up his camera, his portable typewriter, and all the other equipment he ordinarily carried in his plane. The cabin of his ship was especially fitted up with a desk, where he or any one else could write. In this desk he stowed his typewriter and camera, so they would not be thrown about in the plane in case of rough going. In the floor of the ship there was a special opening for the taking of photographs vertically. The sides of the ship were lined with windows, to permit easy observation in all directions.

“We probably shall not have a minute to get anything to eat,” thought Jimmy. “I’ll put a lunch aboard and we can eat it as we fly.”

He ran out to a near-by lunch wagon and had some sandwiches and milk prepared for him. By the time he got back with these, a taxi was just rolling up with Handley. Jimmy greeted his fellow reporter, whom he liked very much, and grabbed up the latter’s little typewriter. Handley followed with a suitcase. They stowed the luggage in the plane, which was now ready to sail. Jimmy helped Handley buckle on a parachute. Then he strapped on his own. They stepped into the cabin and in another moment were climbing aloft as rapidly as Jimmy’s engine would lift them.

Once more Jimmy flew south of west to connect with the Air Mail route to Cleveland. A slight breeze was blowing at a higher altitude, so Jimmy went hedge-hopping along to avoid the wind as much as possible. The air seemed “dead” to him. It felt as though a storm might be brewing. So he plugged in with his head phones and listened for the hourly report of the Airways Weather Bureau. He hadn’t long to wait. Soon he heard the wireless man at Hadley Field broadcasting. Jimmy listened intently. He learned that the weather was fair all the way to Cleveland. But the sky was overcast and the ceiling low. Visibility was poor. There was little wind. The prospect was for increasing cloudiness and bad weather.

“We ought to make Cleveland all right,” thought Jimmy. “It isn’t quite 400 miles from Hadley to Cleveland. There isn’t any wind to speak of, so I won’t have to stop at Bellefonte for gas. I ought to make the trip from Hadley in close to three hours.”

Jimmy looked down and saw that he was already almost abreast of that airport. “In three hours,” he muttered, “I’m going to be in Cleveland. This ship can do it, and I’ll make her do it.” He opened his throttle a little wider, and the plane darted ahead faster than ever.

Away they soared, over the flat lands of New Jersey, above the hills of Pennsylvania, almost straight westward. As they drew near Ringtown Jimmy studied the country closely. He wondered if Johnnie were down there watching him.

“If he has a good pair of field-glasses,” thought Jimmy, “he will easily be able to identify the plane. We are flying so low that he can see my license number plainly. And he ought to be able to read the name New York Morning Press painted on the sides of the ship. I guess I’ll drop him a greeting.”

Hastily he drew a little pad of paper from his pocket, and while he guided the ship with his left hand scribbled this message with his right on the pad, which he placed on his right leg.

“Hello, Johnnie. Going to Cleveland. Be back here about 9:30 to-night. Signal me as I go over. If you have a radio sending set, get in touch with me then. Jimmy Donnelly.”

Snatching from his pocket his handkerchief and a piece of string, Jimmy passed them over to Handley. “Tie strings to each corner of the handkerchief,” he shouted into his ear, “and make a little parachute. I want to drop a message.”

Handley had the parachute made in no time. Jimmy handed him the message for Johnnie. “Tie it fast and put a weight on it,” he shouted. “Look in the desk.”

Handley found some linotype slugs. He tied two or three to the little parachute. Jimmy motioned for him to toss the thing overboard. Handley slid a window open and dropped the message for Johnnie. They were almost directly over the little village. They could see a number of people on the ground watching them; for Jimmy was still flying as low as he dared to fly. The improvised parachute fluttered down, and several figures darted toward it. But long before Jimmy’s message reached the earth, Jimmy himself was far beyond the town. It was impossible to see what had happened to his message, but Jimmie had no doubt it would get to Johnnie Lee promptly.

On they roared. Jimmy’s ship was built for speed. He seldom drove it at its fastest, for that was hard on the engine. But to-day he pushed it along much faster than his ordinary cruising speed. He fully intended to reach Cleveland within the specified time.

As they winged their way westward, Jimmy studied the sky intently. No ray of sunlight anywhere penetrated the dark cloud masses. The sky had a sullen, angry aspect. Though the air was quiet, Jimmy felt that perhaps this was the calm before the storm. He was quite sure that the good weather could not last until he was safely back on Long Island. So he listened closely to the weather broadcasts and tried to read the signs in the sky.

Jimmy made the Cleveland Airport by three o’clock. Before his ship glided to earth, he and Handley had consumed their little luncheon, and thus fortified were ready to plunge into the difficult task that lay ahead of them. They waited only long enough to order their plane serviced promptly, then they stepped into a taxi and were whirled toward the city.

At Handley’s suggestion they drove directly to the office of the Police Commissioner, where Handley presented his credentials and asked that he and Jimmy be given police passes. This took a little time, but Handley was too experienced a reporter to take any chances of delay later on. Their request was promptly granted. Thanking the Cleveland officials, the two New Yorkers hurried back to their taxi and were whirled off to the scene of the disaster. So great was the jam of trucks and fire apparatus and other vehicles that their taxi could not approach within several blocks of the hospital. Handley paid the driver.

“We shall need you all the afternoon,” he said. “Stay right here and wait for us. We shall probably have to drive about considerably.”

The driver agreed to wait for them, and Jimmy and his companion raced toward the hospital. Handley had his typewriter and Jimmy his camera. Newsies were crying the latest extras of the local papers. The New Yorkers bought copies of every paper offered for sale and hastily scanned them, marking names and addresses. Then they pushed on.

Though it was now more than four hours since the explosion occurred, there was still great excitement and activity about the hospital. Policemen and firemen were still stationed about the place. The dead and injured had been removed and the fire extinguished. But the building still smoked, and the air was heavy with that peculiarly offensive odor that comes from a burned building, combined with the noxious fumes from the burned X-ray films and chemicals that still persisted in the neighborhood.

Coming to the scene so late, Jimmy and his comrade were at a great disadvantage. The dead and injured had been removed, the former to the county morgue, the latter to various hospitals within the city. Those people who had been present when the fire started were mostly gone. Policemen, firemen, doctors, and officials, nervously unstrung by the day’s tragedies and taxed by conflict with the surging crowds and by repeated interviews with newspaper men, were blunt, brusque, and often rude. Crowds thronged about the place and it was difficult to move.

“We want to get hold of some of the people who saw the thing from the start and get statements from them,” said Handley. “Then we want to interview just as many doctors, nurses, patients, firemen, policemen, and others who were witnesses of the tragedy as we can get in touch with. We ought to have pictures of the interior of the wrecked building and the outside. And we should have some showing the work of rescue in progress. Maybe we can buy these latter pictures. You try for some photographs and I’ll get interviews. When you get your pictures, hunt me up. I’ll be somewhere about the place.”

Jimmy thrust his police pass into his hatband and hurried toward the wrecked building. A policeman was guarding the entrance. Jimmy did not know whether the policeman would permit him to enter or not. A thought came to him. He stepped up to the bluecoat. “I’m told that you rescued more people than almost any other man on the force. I want your picture for tomorrow’s paper. Just step inside the reception room where I can get you without this crowd and let me snap a picture, won’t you please?” And Jimmy darted right on into the hospital.

The policeman, with a self-conscious look on his face followed. Jimmy didn’t give him time to say a word. “Stand right over there, where the light’s good,” he said. And when the policeman hesitated, Jimmy took him by the arm and shoved him against the wall. Then he backed off and snapped a picture of him.

“That’s fine,” said Jimmy, talking as fast as he could to prevent the policeman from saying anything, “but it doesn’t show what it should. This reception room is hardly damaged at all. I want you with a background that will show the danger you had to face. Some of the rooms upstairs are pretty well torn to pieces, aren’t they? I want a picture of you with that background. Come on.” And Jimmy scurried up a stairway.

The policeman followed. By this time he had found his tongue. He seemed pleased with Jimmy’s interest. “The worst looking room is over here,” he said, and he led the way through a corridor filled with debris. The plaster had been blown from the ceiling, the walls were torn and broken, the window-glass was blown out, furniture was smashed and splintered, and the entire room was in a state of the utmost confusion.

“Stand right there,” said Jimmy, posing his victim before a shattered and bulging section of wall. Then he snapped his picture before the policeman could protest.

“I believe I can get some better pictures up here than any I have,” said Jimmy, and he took several pictures that perfectly portrayed the havoc wrought by the explosion.

“I must get back to my post,” said the policeman, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be guarding the front door.

Jimmy’s heart fell. He thought he was about to be ordered out of the building. But he was equal to the occasion.

“You won’t be leaving the place for a while, will you?” he asked. “I want to talk to you. I’ll look you up at the front door just as soon as I get another picture or two.”

The policeman hesitated. He glanced at Jimmy’s police pass, and though he had been ordered to keep everybody out of the building except policemen, firemen, and hospital employees, he allowed Jimmy to remain, while he himself returned to guard the front door. Doubtless he thought that the damage was already done, and that it would do no harm if Jimmy did get another picture or two. As for Jimmy, the moment the policeman’s back was turned he scurried higher up in the wrecked building and took picture after picture.

His remark about the policeman’s bravery had been a shot in the dark. Jimmy hadn’t any idea whether the man had been present during the disaster or not. But he knew the weakness most folks have for wishing to appear like heroes, and he knew that policemen are no exception to the rule. As luck would have it, this policeman had actually had a share in the work of rescue. Jimmy found that out when he hurried back to the front door after getting all the pictures he wanted.

“Please spell your name for me,” he said, as the policeman turned to greet him. “I want to be sure I get it right.”

“L-a-f-f-e-r-t-y—Dennis Lafferty,” the policeman spelled out, a letter at a time.

“That’s fine,” said Jimmy. “I just hate to get a man’s name wrong. And I’d hate mighty bad to get yours wrong after all the fine work you did.”

Jimmy could see the man swelling with pride.

“I only did my duty,” he said.

“Tell me about it,” urged Jimmy. “Maybe the fellow who told me about it didn’t have the story straight.”

“Well,” said Lafferty, “I was on duty directing traffic two blocks down the street when the explosion occurred. I heard it and ran up here. A woman was struggling to get out of the door right where we are, and I rushed up to help her. Just then I got a whiff of the gas. I knew right away what it was, for you see I was in the World War. So I jammed my handkerchief over my nose, grabbed the woman by the arm, and helped her out of the building. When I turned to go back I saw clouds of yellow gas swirling out through the door. I knew it was worse than useless to go back into the building, so I ran around to the side of the structure to see if there was some other way to get people out.

“By that time the firemen had begun to arrive, and they were driven back by the gas just as I had been. Battalion Chief Michael Graham was the first chief on the grounds. When he saw it was useless to try to enter the first floor, he ordered a motor extension ladder run up to the roof. Then he and some of his men went up it. I scrambled after them. Two firemen hacked away a skylight and three or four of us was lowered into the building by ropes.”

Just then Handley went hurrying past the front door.

“Frank,” shouted Jimmy. “Come here a moment.”

Handley turned, saw Jimmy, and came up the steps to him.

“How are you making out?” he asked.

“Fine,” said Jimmy. “I want you to meet Policeman Dennis Lafferty. He was one of the first policemen to arrive after the explosion. Mr. Lafferty, this is Mr. Handley, my fellow reporter.”

Handley held out his hand to the policeman.

“Mr. Lafferty was just telling me about the way he and some firemen got into the building by way of the roof. They saved a lot of people that way. I’ve got some good snaps of Mr. Lafferty and I want to be sure to get his story correct.” Then he turned to the policeman. “Won’t you tell the story to Mr. Handley?” he asked. “I’ve got to get some more pictures. Handley and I are working together on this story.”

“Sure,” said the policeman. “It’s all one to me.”

He began to talk to Handley and Jimmy hurried away to get some exterior views. He was able to climb up on a building across the street and get a picture of the crowd that jammed the street and the open lawn by the side of the clinic building. Extension ladders were still raised to the roof and to different windows, and by good luck a number of firemen were coming down two of them. From other points of vantage Jimmy snapped the building and the crowd several times. When he had taken all the photographs he wanted, he hurried back to the front of the building. Handley had just met one of the hospital doctors, who had returned to the building to try to secure some important papers. The physician courteously stopped to answer Handley’s questions. Jimmy seized the opportunity to talk to Policeman Lafferty again.

“Did you see any other people who helped in the rescue?” he asked.

“Sure. I saw lots of them. There were dozens of folks who had a hand in it.”

“Tell me about some of them, won’t you please? What was the most striking thing you saw?”

“I hardly know,” said Lafferty. “But there was a big colored fellow who saved a lot of people. You ought to know about him.”

“What did he do and what is his name?” asked Jimmy.

“His name is Chapin—Bob Chapin. He’s a tremendous big fellow. He works in a garage near here. When he heard the explosion and found the hospital was afire, he grabbed up a ladder and ran up here quick. He put the ladder up to a window where a lot of people was trying to get out. The ladder was too short. So Chapin picked it up, rested it on his shoulders, and shoved the end up to the window. It just reached. Ten people come down the ladder while he held it on his shoulders. Then he ran inside and carried out about as many more. He saved almost two dozen people.”

Just then Handley came hurrying back. “We’ve got to move along, Jimmy,” he said. “We’ve played in luck here. I’ve got more stuff than I ever dreamed I could get. Now we must hustle over to the hospitals and the morgue and get names and see how the injured are doing.”

They said good-bye to Policeman Lafferty and thanked him for his help. Then they raced down the street toward the place where their taxi driver awaited. The man was there. They climbed into the car and were whirled off at speed to the Mt. Sinai Hospital, where most of the victims had been taken.

By this time the hospital authorities had secured some sort of order. Lists of names were posted, which helped the reporters greatly. As the emergency patients were placed everywhere, in corridors and hallways as well as in the wards, Jimmy and his comrade managed to reach several of them and get from them first-hand accounts of what happened in the hospital immediately after the first explosion occurred. Also they were able to talk briefly with one or two nurses.

From the Mt. Sinai Hospital they drove to the other hospitals and finally to the morgue. They secured all the names available of both the dead and injured.

“We’ve had wonderful luck,” said Handley. “I’ve got enough stuff to write columns, and I don’t know how much more you have.”

“Let me tell you what I picked up,” said Jimmy. “Some of it may be better than some of the stuff you have. Anyway it will be different.”

They hurried out to their taxi and got into it. “Here are my notes,” said Jimmy. “Now let me tell you briefly what they mean.”

Hastily he ran over the incidents he had gathered. Handley followed the notes as he listened. When Jimmy finished, Handley looked at his watch. “Give me that typewriter quick,” he said. In another moment the keys were flying under his fingers.

“Wait,” said Jimmy. “While you write I could be getting rescue pictures.” Without a word, Handley grabbed his things and stepped from the cab. “I’ll write right here on the hospital steps,” he said. “Hurry back.”

Jimmy directed the taxi driver to take him to the nearest big newspaper. They drove off at speed. Jimmy found the city editor, told him who he was, and asked if he could buy a few rescue pictures for use in the Morning Press in New York. He showed his Press credentials. The city editor turned him over to the photograph staff and Jimmy got several good prints that showed firemen carrying unconscious victims down ladders at the wrecked hospital. He thanked the newspaper men for their help, ran out to his taxi, and was rushed back to his comrade. Handley was still pounding away on his typewriter, utterly oblivious to all that went on about him. He hardly even looked up when Jimmy sat down beside him and started to read the story Handley had written. Jimmy marveled as he watched his colleague dash off the tale. He wondered if he would ever be able to write like that. He was amazed at the gripping quality of the story Handley had written. At last the latter tore the final sheet from his typewriter. He had made carbon copies as he wrote. Jimmy had already sorted out the two sets of sheets. He stuffed one copy of the story into his own pocket and handed the other copy to Handley.

“We’ve certainly played in luck,” he said. “Let us hope I have as good luck getting back to the office.”

Jimmy glanced up at the sky. So intent had he been upon his work that he had forgotten about the weather. What he saw now brought a deep frown to his face. “We’ll have to be stepping,” he said. “It’s already six-thirty. I should have been off before this.”

“I’ll stay here and get more stuff,” said Handley. “Good luck to you.” He turned to the driver of the taxi. “To the airport as fast as you can make it,” he said. “This man has to be in New York by eleven o’clock.”

They dashed off at speed. At the airport Jimmy hurried to the office of the weather forecaster. There he found Mr. Beverly Graham, who was in charge of the entire eastern section of the Airways Weather Bureau, and who had been the forecaster at Hadley Field in the days when Jimmy was in the U. S. mail service.

“Well, where in the world did you come from, Jimmy?” asked Mr. Graham, as he jumped to his feet and held out his hand. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Not half as much as I am to see you,” replied Jimmy, shaking Mr. Graham’s hand heartily. “You know I’m flying for the New York Press, and I’ve got the story of the hospital disaster in my pocket and a camera full of pictures. I’ve got to reach New York as quick as I can get there. What’s the weather like along the line?”

Mr. Graham frowned and looked at Jimmy intently. “I’m sorry you have to fly to-night,” he said. “The weather couldn’t be worse. There’s the densest kind of a fog from one end of Pennsylvania to the other.”

“I’m sorry, too,” said Jimmy, looking glum. “But it has to be done. The Press simply must get these pictures.”

“I know how you feel about it, Jimmy. If you must go, perhaps you can get up above the fog. Be sure to ride high and follow your radio beacon exactly. That’ll guide you all right if you don’t have a forced landing. Your greatest difficulty will probably be to get down safely. The fog isn’t so bad along the coast yet, but we can’t tell what conditions will be like when you reach there. The wind is pretty quiet. There’s a twenty-mile wind at 5,000 feet. I can’t tell you what it is like above that. We couldn’t see our balloons beyond that height, and even this information is two hours old. Fog and clouds have shut out every thing up high the past hour. Here’s a weather chart for you with the latest news we have been able to collect. Fog is solid through Pennsylvania.”

Jimmy studied the chart for a moment. His face grew very serious. Then he said, “Thanks ever so much. I must be off. Good-bye.” He held out his hand and the forecaster shook it warmly.

“I don’t like it, Jimmy,” he said. “I hope you get through safely. Remember to fly high and follow your radio beacon carefully. Don’t take any chance of getting lost in the fog. We’ll do all we can to help you make it.”

CHAPTER VI

Flying Blind Over the Graveyard of Airplanes

Jimmy looked very sober as he climbed into his plane. He was about to tackle the meanest job a pilot is called upon to attempt. Had he been at the other end of the line, starting westward, with the wind in his face, instead of starting eastward, with the breeze at his back, he would hardly have dared to attempt it. But inasmuch as he did not have to make a landing in Pennsylvania, he was willing to try it, although the weather man had suggested that by the time he reached Long Island it might be foggy there also. Jimmy decided to take the chance.

But he wasn’t going to take any more chances than he absolutely had to take. So he switched on his navigation lights, tested his landing lights, made sure his flares were hooked, ready for release, and glanced at his instruments. Then he speeded up his engine and listened to its roar. The instant he was satisfied that everything was working perfectly, he took off.

He hopped into the wind, then circled back to the east, and was away like an arrow. Although the atmosphere at Cleveland was only beginning to grow foggy, before Jimmy had risen a hundred feet in the air the bright lights of the airport began to be blurred. As Jimmy passed directly over the great hangar, after circling, he could barely tell where it was. In another minute low clouds had wiped out every trace of the earth. No matter where he looked, nothing was visible but thick, clinging banks of fog.

Jimmy had been in fog before, but he had never made a trip such as this one promised to be. Always the fogs he had ridden through had dissipated after a time, but this fog-bank bade fair to cover every inch of the four hundred and fifty miles or so to his home field. The possibilities of getting lost, of crashing, of meeting with dire disaster in a flight of such length, were too many for Jimmy to allow himself to consider them.

He did not permit himself even to think of these possibilities. Instead, he called up every bit of flying ability he possessed to meet the situation. At two or three hundred feet elevation he had gone blind. From that point onward, he had to fly wholly by his instruments.

Setting his course by his compass, he sat listening to the guiding note of the radio beacon, his eyes glued to the instrument board. From his compass his eyes darted to his turn-and-bank indicator, then to his air speed indicator. Occasionally he glanced at his engine instruments, to see that his propeller was making the necessary revolutions per minute, that the engine temperature was not too high, that his oil pressure remained constant.

But mostly he kept watch of his speed and of his position. The steel ball in the centre of the turn-and-bank indicator had to be kept right in the centre. Every time the ball began to slide one way or the other, Jimmy had to bring his ship back to a level keel, for the moving steel ball showed that he was beginning to dip to one side or the other. Sense of balance told him little or nothing; and had it not been for his indicator, he might soon have been flying upside down, as many a pilot before him had done. Nor could he allow his ship to drop below a speed of sixty miles an hour, lest it come crashing to earth.

All the while the radio beacon signal was buzzing loudly in his ears. “Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” the signal sounded. It came to him with startling intensity. That was because his ship was close to the beacon itself. As he traveled onward, Jimmy knew, the signal would grow fainter and fainter, for during the first half of the flight to Bellefonte he would be guided by the signals from the airport he had just left. Beyond that he would be guided by the Bellefonte signals, and he knew these would grow ever louder as he neared that field.

Up he climbed, and up and up, seeking to get above the fog. Again and again he glanced at his altimeter, but though he had risen to five thousand feet, and then six and seven and eight thousand, he was still in dense mist. He continued to climb, to watch his instruments, to listen to the radio beacon. All the time he was trying to check his position. He watched his air speed indicator. He watched his tachometer, which indicated his revolutions per minute. He watched his clock. He checked one against the other. With a twenty-mile wind at his back, Jimmy figured he must be making fully one hundred and fifty miles an hour. At that speed he should make his home field in close to three hours. Then he should have to make the trip to the New York office of the Press. It looked to Jimmy as though he ought easily to reach the Press office by eleven o’clock. The thought heartened him.

He could travel faster, if he had to, but he did not want to drive his ship as fast on the return trip as he had driven it in coming west. It was too hard on the ship. So he watched his instruments and held his plane to the speed indicated.

All the while he climbed. Up he went steadily. From eight thousand feet he climbed to nine, then ten. Still the fog was unbroken. But his engine worked marvelously in the heavy air and he kept his ship nosing higher and higher. Suddenly, at eleven thousand feet, he shot up above the fog. The night was clear as crystal. Above him twinkled innumerable stars. With a deep sigh of relief Jimmy climbed a little higher, then straightened out and rode on level keel. Below him spread endless masses of cloud, more wonderful than an ocean, dimly lighted by the stars above. So long as he could ride above the fog his trip was now an easy one. He had only to follow his compass and the radio beacon. The difficulty would come when he had to drop down through the fog and make a landing.

While Jimmy was thus fighting both to insure his safety and to gain his goal, agencies of which he was not aware were also at work to try to make his progress safe. Hardly had Jimmy left the ground at the Cleveland Airport before Beverly Graham hurried into the radio room.

“Sparks,” he said to the radio man, “I wish you would send a message on your printer saying that Jimmy Donnelly, flying for the New York Morning Press, just left here, heading for Long Island. The message will reach caretakers at beacons all along the route. Tell all caretakers to report his progress to me as he goes over their beacons. Nobody else is flying east at this time that we know of and it’s very doubtful if anybody else will go over the route to-night.”

The wireless man turned to his printer and began to pound out the message on the keyboard. But the machine on which he was writing, though it somewhat resembled a typewriter, was not a typewriter at all, but an electric printing or teletype machine, which reproduced the message on similar machines at Bellefonte and Hadley Field and other stations as fast as it was written. In no time, therefore, these two Air Mail stations and the caretakers at various landing fields, knew that Jimmy was flying east in the fog. Thus as Jimmy passed over Mercer and Clarion and other points on the airway in western Pennsylvania his progress was promptly reported to his friend, the chief forecaster.

But long before Jimmy reached the “graveyard of airplanes” he himself was aware that Beverly Graham was making a special effort in his behalf. When he was only a short distance out of Cleveland he heard the hourly weather broadcast from the Cleveland radio man. Jimmy listened intently, though there was little they could tell him about the weather that he did not already know. The usual, stereotyped broadcast contained no reference to the wind. That was the one thing Jimmy wanted to know about. A moment later he heard the Cleveland radio man saying: “Mr. Donnelly, in the New York Morning Press plane, will please note that the wind has shifted slightly from west to southwest and has increased to twenty-five miles an hour. He will also please listen carefully for a message when he passes over Bellefonte.”

“Good old Beverly,” said Jimmy. “He never forgets a friend. He didn’t want me to fly tonight, but now that I am up in the air he’s doing all he can for me. I wonder what he has instructed Bellefonte to do. I’ll thank him at once.”

When Jimmy’s plane was built it had been equipped with a radio receiving set. But about two weeks before he was ordered to Cleveland, Jimmy had succeeded in having a sending set installed in the plane, thus bringing his ship right up to date. Not even all the mail planes had sending sets as yet, though some of them did.

Jimmy picked up his instrument, put the mouthpiece to his lips, and sent this message into the air: “Jimmy Donnelly, of the Morning Press, speaking. Cleveland weather forecast received. Also special notice as to force and direction of the wind. Will get into touch with Bellefonte as I go over. Thanks very much for help. I shall need all I can get.”

He replaced the mouthpiece and settled back in his seat. A quick glance at his instrument board assured him that all was working well. He looked at his clock and tried to figure out his position. Suddenly he became aware that the buzzing in his ears had altered. No longer did he hear the regular “dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” which told him he was directly on the air line. Instead Jimmy heard the signal “dot dah, dot dah, dot dah, dot dah, dot dah.” He knew he was to the left of the course.

“That’s the work of the wind,” thought Jimmy. “Shifting to the southwest, it has blown me to the northeast of the line. I’ll move over to the right a little.”

He kicked his rudder bar, shoved his stick over ever so slightly, and sat listening. “Dot dah, dot dah, dot dah,” sang the ear phones, but presently the signal changed. “Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” it went. He was back on the course.

“Gee, but I’m glad I’m flying in the year 1929, and not half a dozen years ago,” thought Jimmy. “I’d soon be way off my course and never know the difference if I didn’t have this radio set. I tell you, a compass doesn’t help much when there’s a cross-wind. Half a dozen years ago, before there were any radio beacons, I’d have had to make this trip by dead reckoning, and I’d probably have landed in Connecticut, or Massachusetts, or any old place except Long Island.”

He flew on, listening carefully to the buzz of the radio beacon, and intent upon his task. He was pleased to know that his friend, the forecaster, had taken so much trouble on his account. He would have been still more pleased could he have known to what extent the weather man was laboring in his behalf. For after Jimmy left the Cleveland Airport, Beverly Graham sat down at his desk and devoted himself to doing all that he could to get Jimmy through in safety.

Suddenly Jimmy heard a sharp signal, sounding above the dull buzz of the directional beacon. A smile of satisfaction flitted over Jimmy’s face. “I’m right over Brookville,” he muttered. Quickly he glanced at his clock, then made a rapid calculation. “I’m right on the line and right where I ought to be at this minute,” he thought. “I’m making almost exactly 150 miles an hour.”

What he had heard was a marker beacon. At intervals along the airway, radio signals are sent up vertically, just as they are sent horizontally from the radio beacons at Cleveland, Bellefonte, and Hadley Field. These vertical radio beams are audible only for the brief spaces of time it takes a plane to sweep over the stations sending them. The present signal was gone almost as soon as Jimmy heard it, but it gave him a world of information and assurance. It told him, not merely that he was on the line, which he already knew, but it also told him the exact point on that line which he had reached. He soared onward with increased confidence.

Intently he watched his instrument board. From time to time the radio beacon warned him that he was being blown from the direct line, and he nosed his plane back to the path. Everything seemed to be going well. His clock told him that he should be nearing Bellefonte, the half-way point between Cleveland and Hadley Field. Also, the radio signals were now so much more powerful that he knew he must be close to the beacon emitting them.

For some time Jimmy rode with only the roar of his own engine and the buzzing of the radio beacon reaching his ears. He was certain, however, that he must be near Bellefonte. The radio beacon signals came so loudly. Suddenly, above the steady buzz of the directional beacon came the sharp signal of the Bellefonte marker beacon. Jimmy drew a breath of relief. “Halfway,” he muttered, “and everything as fine as silk.”

Hardly had he heard the marker beacon before a voice sounded in his ears: “This is Bellefonte Weather Bureau speaking to Jimmy Donnelly, of the New York Morning Press. As nearly as we can judge by the sound of your engine, you are directly over the field. Fog continues bad throughout Pennsylvania. Wind remains unchanged—southwest, twenty-five miles an hour. Conditions much better after you pass the mountains. Some fog in New Jersey and may be more before you get there.”

Instantly Jimmy answered through his sending set. “This is Jimmy Donnelly speaking to Bellefonte,” he said. “Your message received. Thanks ever so much. Have you any information about weather between Hadley Field and Long Island?”

“No,” came the reply, “but will tell Hadley to get latest information and talk to you as you go by. Good luck to you.”