“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 theMorning Pressin New York. He showed hisPresscredentials. 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 YorkPress, 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. ThePresssimplymustget 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 thePress. It looked to Jimmy as though he ought easily to reach thePressoffice 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 YorkMorning 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 YorkMorning Pressplane, 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 theMorning 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 YorkMorning 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.”
“Please tell Long Island I am coming,” said Jimmy. “I ought to hit there about ten o’clock. Please ask the radio man there to listen in for me about that time. I’ll get in touch with him after I pass Hadley. Thanks ever so much.”
Jimmy went sailing straight on through the fog. Ahead of him lay the worst place on the entire mail route, the Woodward Pass. But he was light of heart. He knew where he was, he knew how high he had to be to pass safely over the mountains, and he had no fear of losing his way. Had he been left to reckon out his position himself, he would have been worried and uncertain, no matter how regularly his propeller turned, no matter how accurate his clock. But with the radio keeping him on the course and telling him the precise moment when he passed over Bellefonte, there could be neither doubt nor uncertainty. So he flew on, almost jubilant. He was making the schedule he had set for himself. He felt sure he was going to succeed.
On he went, carefully watching his instruments, and trying to figure his position from moment to moment. Now he felt sure he was past the mountains beyond Bellefonte and flying over the lovely Penn’s Valley. In a few minutes he was approaching Woodward Pass. He pictured Winkelblech Mountain rearing its great bulk directly in the line of his flight, where he should turn to the right and shoot through the pass. But to-night he was not shooting passes. He was thousands of feet above the pass. Suddenly, for the merest fraction of a second, he thought he saw a gleam of light. It must have been the beacon on Winkelblech, he thought, shining through some rift in the fog. In a few moments he knew he must be past the mountains and sailing over the beautiful Buffalo Valley. But only his instruments told him so. Below him he could see nothing but fog.
Ahead of him lay more mountains—wicked ones, too, through the great reaches of the anthracite coal field, where the earth is as rough and rugged as the outside of a black walnut shell. But the furrows in the earth are great mountain ridges, and the wrinkles are hills and precipices.
On he flew, following the radio beacon intently, watching his time, calculating his position. He could see absolutely nothing. He wanted to see nothing but the instruments before him, for it was almost terrifying to look out into the fog. His instruments seemed friendly to him.
Now he felt sure he was over Sunbury. One hour more would bring him to Hadley Field, for it was exactly 150 miles between the two points. In half an hour, three quarters of an hour at most, the worst part of the trip would be over. The Pennsylvania mountains would be passed, and underfoot would lie the flat agricultural lands of New Jersey, where he might hope to land in safety if he were forced down, though there seemed to be little chance of that.
He rushed on through the night. Ahead of him, he knew, the country was far less rugged for a distance. The mountains melted into hills of perhaps eight hundred feet elevation, and there were many farms and smooth fields. But soon after he should pass Elysburg, just ahead, the land would rise up sharp again, in hills twelve hundred feet high. Beyond them was lower land once more, and then the ridges climbed up, just before Ringtown was reached, until their summits towered two thousand feet aloft. Little did Jimmy care about that. He was far, far above them. The mountains meant nothing to him. Already the marker beacon at Numidia was sounding in his ears. Soon, now, he would be entirely past the mountains.
Suddenly he noticed that his engine was beginning to heat. He glanced at his oil gauge and found that it was no longer working. Instantly he looked at his tachometer. His engine speed was falling rapidly. Jimmy opened his throttle. There was no answering response from the engine. Instead, it beat slower and slower. It was making twelve hundred revolutions per minute. It fell to nine, then seven hundred. His ship slowed dangerously. He began to lose altitude. There was nothing to do but come down. Otherwise he would soon fall. He decided to try to make the landing field at Numidia. Then he saw that he could not do it. The wind at his back would prevent it. His engine was too weak to fight the breeze. It would blow him far to one side of the little landing field.
An icy feeling grew about Jimmy’s heart. He knew what was coming—a forced landing among the mountains, in the densest sort of fog. Already he was far down in the mist clouds. Vision was absolutely cut off. For a single instant he felt numb, almost paralyzed. Then he rallied all the skill he had, to fight for his life.
The next landing field was at Ringtown. It was only eleven miles from Numidia to Ringtown, and he had already passed over part of the distance. He must make the landing field at Ringtown. He must keep his ship in the air until he could reach that field. If only his trouble had occurred a bit sooner, he could have made the field at Numidia. The marker beacon would have helped him to get down to the right spot. How he was going to tell where the Ringtown field was, in this awful fog, Jimmy did not know. He could not even guess.
Between him and Ringtown were those stern and beetling hilltops—those mountains that towered heavenward for two thousand feet. Could he get over them? With his face drawn and serious Jimmy glanced at his altimeter. He was still well above that height, but he was losing elevation steadily. Could he get over those mountain crests? Could he find the landing field if he did get over?
Suddenly he thought of his radio. He put the mouthpiece to his lips. “This is Donnelly of theNew York Press,” he said firmly and evenly. “I am between Numidia and Ringtown. My oil line has gone bad. My engine is failing. I am losing altitude fast. I am trying to get over the mountains west of Ringtown and land at that field. May need help.”
Jimmy had no idea whether or not any one would hear his call. Ordinarily the radio men would not be listening in for messages. Yet there was a chance that they might be listening to-night, because of the very bad weather. But Jimmy was reckoning without Beverly Graham. The moment he found that Jimmy had a sending set, the latter had issued orders that a constant watch be kept on the air. Hence Jimmy’s message came to waiting ears. The Bellefonte radio man caught it.
He didn’t even wait to answer Jimmy. There is no caretaker at the little Ringtown landing field. The Bellefonte operator knew that. But he snatched up his telephone and tried to get a connection with a man at Ringtown who had control over the field. The telephone operator was a long time in getting the connection. When finally the Bellefonte operator got his man, he said hastily: “A flier is making a forced landing at your field right away. See if you can do something to help him.”
But meantime, though the operator almost failed in his effort to get help for Jimmy, help from another source was at hand. Johnnie Lee had gotten Jimmy’s parachute message and read it. When night came on, and he saw what the weather was like, he doubted very much if Jimmy would attempt to return to New York. But if Jimmy did fly over, Johnnie wanted to signal him. He wanted his old friend to know that he had received his message. He knew that it was idle to attempt to send a message up through the fog with so impotent a thing as his flash-light. And so for a long time Johnnie had been at work preparing for a bonfire.
Fearful of setting fire to his father’s buildings, Johnnie had been stacking up old boards and rails on top of a pile of old wood that stood close to one edge of his father’s farm, and almost adjoining the landing field. He had thrown coal oil on the pile, saturating it thoroughly, and he had a bucket of gasoline all ready to throw on the heap before he touched a match to it.
But that was not all. As Jimmy had suspected, Johnnie had a radio sending set, like most of the other members of the Wireless Patrol. It would not carry his voice so very many miles, but Johnnie knew it would carry well enough for him to hold a conversation with Jimmy as the latter neared Ringtown. Even now he was at his radio, listening. He had been there for some time. He had caught the weather forecast from Bellefonte. He felt sure that if Jimmy had left Cleveland, he ought to be nearing Ringtown. So he listened hopefully yet fearfully. And suddenly he caught the very message that galvanized the Bellefonte operator into action. Jimmy was calling for help. He was near at hand. He was trying to make the Ringtown field, but there was nothing to guide him.
The instant Jimmy stopped speaking, Johnnie sent a call speeding through the air. “Jimmy Donnelly,” he said. “This is Johnnie Lee speaking. I heard your call for help. I have a big bonfire ready to light. I will touch it off at once. Maybe you can see it through the fog. The landing field is just beyond it. Is there anything else I can do to help you?”
Instantly there was an answer. “God bless you, Johnnie. Light your fire quick. I’m coming down fast, but I believe I’m going to clear the mountains. Get your fire lighted quick.”
Johnnie did not tarry a single instant. Out of the house he darted and away he rushed across the fields to his pile of wood, heedless of the dark and the fog. He knew the way perfectly and his flash-light helped him to avoid loose stones. He reached his beacon without a fall or a twisted ankle.
Grabbing up his bucket of gasoline he threw it over his pile of wood. Then he struck a match and tossed it toward the heap. There was a terrific burst of flames that shot fifty feet into the air. Then the oil-soaked pile of wood caught fire. The flames soared upward. The fire grew intense. The oily wood burned with terrific heat. The glare of the flames lighted the entire region. Even through the fog the flare of the fire could be seen for a long distance. It turned the mist into glowing clouds. It shone through rifts in the fog, like the electric beams of searchlights penetrating the openings between cloud masses.
Suddenly Johnnie thought he heard the drone of a motor. Then the sound faded away. The noise of the fire drowned out more distant sounds. The snap and crackle and hiss and roar of the burning heap shut out every trace of the hum of a propeller. For a moment Johnnie stood near his beacon, vainly straining his ears for some further trace of an airplane. Then he ran hastily off to one side. Again he heard the faint drone of a motor. Then the sound died away. But Johnnie felt sure he had not been deceived. Jimmy was going to make it. He was going to reach the field in safety.
Again Johnnie strained his ears, to catch another shred of sound. A puff of wind brought him what he was listening for, loudly, unmistakably. Once more the sound died away. But Johnnie knew he had not been mistaken. He had heard an airplane. Suddenly the sound came to him with startling distinctness. He strained both ears and eyes as he peered upward through the fog.
Suddenly there was a bright glow aloft. Johnnie’s heart stood still. He listened for an explosion. He was frozen with horror. The plane overhead—Jimmy’s plane—was afire. He gazed fearfully into the concealing fog to see where the plane was falling. He saw it coming down with a rush, flaming fiercely. The cloud of fog was all aglow with the brilliant light. It shone even brighter than Johnnie’s bonfire. Regardless of what might happen to him if the plane exploded, Johnnie rushed toward the spot where it was apparently going to crash. Johnnie reached the place. He paused, looking upward. He held his breath, waiting for the smash. Down came the glowing light to the earth. Johnnie let out a yell of relief. It was not the plane that had fallen, but a flare that Jimmy must have dropped.
Quickly Johnnie looked aloft again. He stared through the fog banks. Dimly he saw something glowing. He watched, breathless. Almost instantly the glow over his head became two luminous spots in the mist. They grew brighter fast. Now Johnnie was certain he knew what he was looking at. The luminous spots were the landing lights of a descending plane. They seemed to be jumping right at him. Johnnie knew the plane was coming straight toward him. It was almost upon him. He leaped to one side. He was not a moment too soon. The descending plane swished past him, seemed to rise lightly, then leveled off, hit the ground heavily, bounced, came to earth again, and went rolling and jolting straight across the landing field.
Johnnie raced after the ship. It came to rest. A figure stepped from the cabin. Johnnie raced toward the man.
“Hello!” he cried.
“Hello yourself,” came the answer. “Who are you?”
“This is Johnnie. Thank God you got down safe.”
They clasped hands and stood silent.
CHAPTER VII
A Forced Landing in a Fog
For a second the two old friends held each other’s hand. Then some one was heard running toward them. A man appeared in the fog.
“It’s the man who looks after the field,” said Johnnie, as soon as he could distinguish the approaching figure. “I suppose he heard you land and has come to help.”
The man rushed up. “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously. “Did you get down without much damage?”
“Don’t believe I broke a thing,” said Jimmy.
“You know my plane is built with unusually strong underpinning. Let’s take a look at her.”
Johnnie’s bonfire gave them enough light to see by. Quickly they examined the plane. Nothing was wrong externally.
“Let’s take a look at the oil line,” said Jimmy. “Something went wrong with it.”
He reached into his plane and drew out his flash-light. “Hold it,” he said, shoving it into Johnnie’s hand. Then he turned and opened the cowling of his engine.
With practiced eye he glanced along the length of the oil line. At first nothing wrong was apparent. But on the bottom of the engine compartment was a telltale pool of oil. Jimmy twisted his head and got a look at the underside of the oil line. The pipe was cracked open along the seam. The crack extended for several inches. Practically all the oil had dripped from the engine.
“Vibration must have done that,” said Jimmy, as he turned to his companions and explained what was wrong. “Likely it happened when I went west this afternoon, for I flew the ship pretty hard. I suppose the seam gave way then, and the hard trip to-night has opened it up. Have you got any tire tape, Johnnie?”
“Plenty of it,” said Johnnie. “I’ll fetch you some.”
“Bring all you can get,” shouted Jimmy after the fast-disappearing Johnnie. “And arrange for some oil. I’ll need a lot. Hurry as fast as you can, Johnnie. I mustn’t lose a minute.”
Jimmie stepped into the cabin of his ship and threw open a locker, in which he carried odds and ends that might be useful to him in just such an emergency as this. There were rolls of tire tape here. Jimmy grabbed them. In another moment he was rapidly taping the broken pipe-line. Over the actual opening in the seam he wound several thicknesses of the tape. Then he began to twist the stuff around the remainder of the little pipe. There was no telling how soon the rest of the seam would open, and Jimmy meant to play safe. He used all the tape he had, and when Johnnie came back with additional rolls, he added these to his reinforcements. When all the tape was wrapped, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“I don’t believe we’ll lose any more oil,” he said, “even if the whole seam opens up. She’s wound tight and thick. Now, how about oil? Could you get any?”
“Dad’s bringing all we have,” said Johnnie. “We buy it in thirty-gallon barrels, as we can get it so much cheaper.”
“Thank heaven you’ve got plenty of it,” said Jimmy. “It’ll take a lot. How is your father going to get it here?”
“On the truck,” said Johnnie. And even as he spoke they heard the chugging of a motor and a farm truck came nosing through the fog.
Jimmy stepped to the truck and greeted Mr. Lee. “It’s mighty kind of you to help me out,” he said. “I thought I was done, when I was forced down. But now I can take off again and I can still get to New York on time. I’ll lose half an hour here probably, but there’s still time enough if I don’t have any more trouble.”
Johnnie filled the oil tank as fast as he could. Jimmy snatched the opportunity to look his motor over. Everything seemed to be right. Then he watched the oil gauge and told Johnnie when to stop pouring oil. He made everything tight about the cowling, gave the ship a final inspection under the rays of his flash-light, and stepped into his cabin.
Now he would know whether he might possibly still succeed in his enterprise. He was fearful that the engine might have overheated and been injured when it was running with insufficient oil. Would it start now? And if it started, would it run? Could he depend upon it? Would it have power enough to lift him from the ground? Could he trust it to raise him high enough aloft to clear the mountains so close in front of him?
Fearfully Jimmy pressed the starter. There was an explosion, the propeller turned over once or twice and stopped. Jimmy’s heart almost stopped with it. The engine was ruined. It would not go. He had failed in his effort. He had lost his big opportunity. All these thoughts flashed through Jimmy’s mind. Then came another. “It’s got to go,” he muttered.
He choked the engine and again touched the starter. For a moment the starter whirred noisily, but the engine did not explode. Then there was a bang, the propeller whirled madly about, and the engine began to hum smoothly.
“There wasn’t any gas in it the first time,” thought Jimmy.
Then he sat and listened. His motor ran as well as ever it had run. It was purring as smoothly as a sewing-machine. He ran his eye over his instrument board. The oil gauge was registering now. Everything looked right. He did not take time to make his usual tests. Throttling down his engine, he leaned from the cabin.
“A million thanks, everybody,” he said. “I’ll get into touch with you later. I’ve got to be off this instant or I’ll be late with my stuff. Goodbye and good luck to you all. Thanks ever so much.”
He closed the cabin door and stepped into the pilot’s seat. The engine began to pick up. It beat faster and faster. Presently the plane started to roll forward, very slowly. Jimmy drove it straight on until he could see the little, low boundary lights that marked the edge of the landing field. He drove the ship close to them, turned it about to head it into the wind, then went charging blindly back across the field through the fog, almost straight at the reddish blur that he knew was Johnnie’s bonfire. His engine functioned perfectly. He gathered speed. Suddenly the plane lifted from the ground and soared almost directly above the blazing pyre. For a single instant it was visible in the red mist above the flames. Then it vanished from view in the fog as a stone disappears beneath the water.
Inside the plane Jimmy sat tense. His first effort was to gain elevation. Before him, at almost no distance, the hills once more reached an elevation of 2,000 feet. He had to climb a thousand feet to reach their tops, another thousand to be safe. But there was this factor in his favor. He was flying with the wind. The air would rush upward when it struck the slopes of the mountains and he would be borne upward with it.
But Jimmy was not waiting for any ascending currents of air to carry him aloft. He opened his throttle wide and climbed as rapidly as he could push his ship upward. For a few moments he thought of nothing else. He wanted to gain altitude. With every second he breathed more easily. His altimeter showed him he was mounting fast. Now he was at 1,300 feet, now 1,500, now 1,800, now 2,000. Up he went. His altimeter registered 2,500 feet. Jimmy knew he was safe. No hilltop in the region towered so high. At 3,000 feet he felt still better. But he did not stop climbing until he was thousands of feet aloft.
All the time he had been climbing, Jimmy had also been trying to keep on his course. The radio beacon made that easily possible. All the time it had been singing in Jimmy’s ears, “dah, dah, dah, dah,” and Jimmy thought he had never heard sweeter music.
Assured of sufficient elevation, certain that he was on the line, Jimmy felt sure that nothing could now prevent him from reaching his goal. He was elated. He might have broken his landing gear at Ringtown. The plane might have nosed over and damaged his propeller. He might even have crashed. Any one of these things might have happened and one of them almost certainly would have happened, had it not been for Johnnie Lee’s beacon. Added to the light of the revolving beam from the landing field tower and his own flare, it had enabled Jimmy to get down safely. It wouldn’t matter if he did smash his landing gear when he came down on Long Island. He would then be at his destination.
So Jimmy sailed ahead jubilantly. And his jubilation increased as he flew along. He knew just where he was. He glanced at his clock, to check the time, and ran his eye over all his other instruments. Everything seemed to be working right.
Meantime, the forces on the ground had not been idle. The moment that Jimmy took off from Ringtown, the man who had helped Jimmy there hurried to the telephone and informed the Bellefonte radio man that Jimmy had landed safely at Ringtown, had repaired a leak in his oil line, and had taken off again. At almost the same time word came to Bellefonte to the effect that a plane had just passed over the Park Place beacon. That was reassuring news, for it told the watchers that Jimmy had gotten safely aloft once more.
On he went, boring through the fog. To this he gave small heed. His entire attention was centred on his instrument board. He watched that like a hawk. From his turn and balance indicator, which told him when he was on a level keel and was flying straight, his eyes jumped to his tachometer, to his oil gauge, his oil temperature gauge, his altimeter, and so on from instrument to instrument. But most often his eye fell upon the oil gauge. Despite his confident remarks about the security of the pipe-line, he was none too sure that he would not have further trouble with it. But none developed, though Jimmy soared along, mile after mile.
A half hour passed. Jimmy had his eye on his clock. “We ought to be close to Easton,” he thought. He glanced out through the fog, though he had no hope of seeing anything but mist. Nor did he see anything else. Yet the mist had a luminous quality he had not noticed at any other time. He sped on and presently the mist lost its luminous effect. For a moment Jimmy was puzzled. Then a look of inquiry came to his face. “Could that have been from the lights of Easton?” he thought. “If it was, the fog is not so dense.”
He flew on. The radio beacon kept him straight on the course. His clock and his tachometer assured him that he was well past Easton. He felt easier in his mind. There were no more mountains to face. The waves of land that make Pennsylvania so rugged were flattening out. Nowhere before him, Jimmy knew, were there hills higher than 800 feet and soon he would be over country as flat as a sea on a calm day. The thought cheered him. His radio signals were growing much stronger. He knew that meant that he was approaching Hadley Field. He began to peer out into the mist, hoping to find it lessening.
Presently a bright flash of light shone for a second against a bank of fog. Jimmy almost cried out with joy. It was the beam of a revolving beacon. Soon he saw another flash of light. He began to descend and came down cautiously until he was within a thousand feet of the earth. And now he could see, here and there as he flew, luminous patches in the fog. He knew well that these bright spots were the lights of towns. He calculated his position and slowly dropped down another hundred feet.
He knew now that he was nearing Hadley Field. All about him were Jersey towns. He could begin to make them out more plainly. The mist was no longer in unbroken clouds. It was growing thin and stringy. Occasionally through a rift in it he could catch a clear glimpse of lights on the ground. And now he began to see the beams of the revolving lights at frequent intervals.
He decided to try to talk with the Hadley radio man. Picking up his mouthpiece, he sent forth a call: “Jimmy Donnelly, in theNew York Pressplane, calling Hadley Field.”
The call was answered as soon as he had done speaking. “Hadley Field answering Donnelly,” came the reply, sharp and crisp. “Is everything all right with you?”
“Couldn’t be better,” replied Jimmy, “except for fog. That is growing less. What can you tell me about the weather between here and Long Island?”
“It improves all the way. Long Island just told us that there was almost no fog there.”
“Won’t you ask them to have a taxi ready for me when I arrive,” said Jimmy. “I’ve got to rush some films to thePressoffice. I mustn’t lose a minute.”
“We’ll call them right away and tell them you want a taxi. Have you any idea where you are?”
“I ought to be near—why, there’s your neon light and the beacon over the hangar. Now it’s gone again. I must be very close to Hadley. It didn’t seem to be more than two miles away.”
“We can hear your motor,” came back the reply. “We’ll tell Long Island you’ll be there very soon. Good luck to you. We’ll call them at once.”
Plainer and plainer Jimmy could see the glowing lights below him. He dropped down another hundred feet. Suddenly he heard the marker beacon at Hadley Field. Now he was sure he knew where he was. There were the lights of New Brunswick. Beyond was Metuchen. Much farther away was a glow that must be Perth Amboy. Jimmy thanked his lucky stars. No longer would he have the radio beacon to direct him. He must find his own way. Unless fog arose immediately, there would be no difficulty about that. In a few minutes he would be at his airport.
The radio beacon had already ceased to beat in his ears. He was past Hadley Field. He set his course direct for his destination, noted the compass direction, and flew on. Soon he was over Staten Island. He flew above the Narrows and was over Long Island. Below him for miles glowed the lights of Brooklyn. His plane rushed on like an eagle. Soon Brooklyn was behind him. His own field lay just before him. There were fog clouds and shreds of fog, but it was easy enough to see down between them. Another half hour, Jimmy knew, would probably put the whole island under a deep blanket of fog. He had often seen the fog making up as it was now. But he cared nothing at all about what conditions would be like in half an hour. For he was home. His landing field was just under him.
He nosed his ship downward, shut off his power, and came down in a long glide. The field was well lighted. He could see the earth perfectly. He put his ship down in a three point landing, and rolled across the turf. Then he taxied rapidly to his hangar, gave a shouted order to fill the gas and oil tanks, threw off his parachute, grabbed his camera, and rushed out to the waiting taxi. In another second he was speeding toward Manhattan.
It still lacked several minutes of his deadline when he rushed into thePressoffice and laid his story on the city editor’s desk. A copy boy ran to the photograph department with his camera. Jimmy sank into a seat. He suddenly felt weak. He was all atremble. It was the let down after the tremendous strain he had undergone.
The managing editor came walking out of his office. He held out his hand and shook Jimmy’s warmly. “It was a fine piece of work, Jimmy,” he said. “Handley telegraphed us about you and the bad night. We have followed you all the way across. You had us pretty badly frightened when you told Bellefonte your engine was failing and you were making a forced landing in the mountains. And our relief was great when we found you were patched up and on your way again. It is equalled only by our pleasure in seeing you.”
Jimmy looked abashed. Then he lost all sense of self-consciousness as the thought of Johnnie Lee popped into his head.
“I might not be here now, Mr. Johnson,” he said, “if it had not been for my old friend Johnnie Lee. It was his bonfire that saved me. Without it I should almost certainly have crashed. I owe my life to him and thePressowes its pictures and its story to him. He wants to be a reporter, Mr. Johnson. Can’t you help him? Haven’t you a job for him?”
“Has he done any reporting, Jimmy? Has he had any experience?”
“No, sir. But he is clever enough. He could learn quickly, if you would give him a chance. And I have no doubt he would be glad to work for very little pay or maybe none at all until he learned how to do the work. Can’t you take him on, Mr. Johnson?”
“I’m sorry, Jimmy, I’ll gladly send him a check for his help to-night. We are always willing to pay anybody who helps us get news. But we have no use for green reporters here. We need trained men. We seldom hire cubs any more. We want men with experience.”
“But you took me on,” protested Jimmy, “and I was perfectly green.”
“You came on as a flier, Jimmy. And you would be the last man in the world to say you were green at that job.”
“But I learned how to get news. So could Johnnie.”
“Yes, you did, Jimmy. You picked up the knack readily. And if you continue to improve, you’ll make a great reporter some day. But you evidently had it in you.”
“Maybe Johnnie does, too.”
“I’m sorry, Jimmy. We can’t possibly take him on. But if he got some experience—if he showed us that he knew how to handle a story—I might give him a chance. I feel very much indebted to him. It was a great thing for you to get through with that story, even if you were delayed.”
Jimmy looked alarmed. “The story will make the edition, won’t it?” he asked.
“Absolutely. And we’ll scoop every other paper in town on pictures. The only other pictures in the city were sent by wire, and they aren’t half as good as actual photographs. What’s more, we’ll have one feature that no other paper in the country will have. That is the story of how theMorning Press’flying reporter dared a fog that stopped even the Air Mail, and got through. The story is already in type, Jimmy.”
CHAPTER VIII
Jimmy Saves a Boyhood Friend
Jimmy was almost startled at the managing editor’s announcement. Then he felt embarrassed. It had never occurred to him that his paper would print the story of his flight. He had not thought his flight worth telling about. In fact, he had not thought of anything except getting back with the news. Had not Handley wired the managing editor about the perilous trip Jimmy was making, and had not that enterprising individual gotten into touch with the Airways Weather Bureau and urged its personnel to do everything possible to insure Jimmy’s safety, the tale would probably never have been known in thePressoffice. For Jimmy would doubtless have walked in and apologized for being delayed. He would probably have said that he had had engine trouble and had landed at Ringtown to fix an oil pipe that was leaking. That would have been just like Jimmy. And no one would have known the difference.
But the managing editor, despite his accustomed gruffness and sharpness, was at heart the kindest of men. His harsh exterior was merely a mask he wore. He was fond of Jimmy. He had been truly worried about his flying reporter. He understood Jimmy well enough to know that the lad would make every effort humanly possible to get back with the photographs and the story.
Indeed, that was the real reason he liked Jimmy so much. Loyalty and enthusiasm counted greatly with the managing editor. And he knew that Jimmy was one hundred per cent. faithful. So he had taken the matter of Jimmy’s flight in hand, and had done all he could to help his pilot get through. By telephone he had been kept informed of the lad’s progress, and he had even been in conversation with the field worker at Ringtown. That was how he knew all about the matter. Ordinarily he had little to say to any one by way of commendation or praise. But this time he forgot his own rule of “not spoiling good reporters by praising them.” He had spoken from his heart.
There really wasn’t much danger of the managing editor’s spoiling Jimmy, or of anybody else’s doing it, for that matter; because Jimmy was so intent on doing something, on accomplishing something, on getting ahead and climbing up, that he had little time to think about the things he had done. What interested Jimmy was the things hehopedto accomplish. He was always studying how to be a better flier and how to gain more ability in his new task as a newspaper man.
For a short time he had no assignments that taxed his abilities in either direction. He took theMorning Presscamera man out to take pictures, on several occasions; he transported photographs himself; and he did one or two little tasks of reporting. But things moved so slowly for several days after the flight from Cleveland that time began to hang heavy on Jimmy’s hands and he was growing restless for a task that seemed to him worthwhile.
It came, as most newspaper stories come, unexpectedly. Early one evening an A. P. “flash” was received, saying that a great dam had burst in northeastern New Hampshire. A town had been partly wiped out by the wall of water that poured down the narrow valley. Scores were dead or missing. Hundreds were homeless. It was a disaster of the worst kind.
Managing Editor Johnson saw at once that this was no mere local story. This was a story of the widest interest. It was almost a “national” story. The destroyed town was far up in the northern part of the State, is a rough and rugged region. It would be utterly impossible to get one of his own men there in time to get a story for the next day’s paper. He would have to depend upon local correspondents. Fortunately thePresshad a correspondent at Berlin, which was not many miles distant from the wrecked village. Mr. Johnson ordered this correspondent to the scene at once, and made what arrangements he could with the telegraph company to expedite the handling of the despatches that might be filed. Then he called up Jimmy.
“We have just had a flash from the A. P.,” he said, “about a dam that has burst north of Berlin, New Hampshire, partly wiping out the town of Northend. It won’t be possible for you to do anything to-night, I suppose, but I wish you would take off at daybreak and get up there as quick as you can. The place is in the very peak of the State. It’s the northernmost town. We will get the general story through the A. P. and I have sent our Berlin correspondent. But we want a story by a staff member. Get all the incidents you can—the sort of stuff you and Handley gathered at Cleveland—and in particular get lots of pictures. We need the pictures especially. Get back here at the earliest moment you can.”
“All right, Mr. Johnson,” said Jimmy, “but I won’t wait until morning. I’ll take off at once. I can follow the New York to Boston lighted airway and stop at Springfield for the night. I know the way well. I could go all the way, but I don’t know anything about the airports up in the White Mountains. I might have trouble in landing. So I’ll stay at Springfield for the night and hop off from there at dawn. That will get me there early in the morning.”
“Good,” replied the managing editor. “That ought to get you back here by late afternoon. Good-bye and good luck to you.”
Jimmy hopped off as soon as he could get ready. He was glad to be in the air again, happy to have a real task ahead of him. To be sure, there was nothing apparently difficult about this job. There was plenty of time, and the work ought to be easy. But Jimmy already knew enough about newspaper work to understand that one can never tell what will develop in any story. Before he got through with it, this assignment might bring him some thrilling experiences. At any rate, here was another chance to make good. This time he was wholly on his own.
Furthermore, the night was perfect. In flying language it was a “C. A. V. U.” night—a night with ceiling and visibility unlimited. Not a cloud flecked the sky. The deep blue inverted bowl of the heavens seemed immeasurable. Myriads of stars hung in the firmament. So clear was the atmosphere that they made the night luminous. Indeed, the stars alone would have lighted the earth. But a glowing young moon added its brilliant beams, making the night almost like day. It was an evening to gladden a pilot’s heart.
It did gladden Jimmy’s. He felt so gay and frolicsome that he could hardly refrain from doing a few barrel rolls, or looping the loop, or in some other way giving expression to his mood. But when he remembered that he was a fully accredited member of the staff of a great newspaper, and saw that it would not be seemly for a real reporter to be doing somersaults like a child, he restrained himself and flew along soberly enough. Yet his heart was singing gaily.
It was little more than nine o’clock when Jimmy hopped off from the Long Island airport. He had only a trifle more than 100 miles to go. He could make it easily in an hour, and in much less time if he chose to do so. But there was no call for haste, and Jimmy didn’t want to get to Springfield too soon. He was enjoying the night and the ride altogether too much. So he flew along at a lazy gait.
He had crossed the upper part of New York City, so that he could fly over the East River rather than the Sound. And he had picked up the line of beacons that marks the airway from Newark to Boston. Ahead of him he could see revolving beacon after beacon, at ten-mile intervals, as one sees street lamps stretching along a city boulevard. The way was as evident as Broadway at noon. But on a night like this Jimmy didn’t need any lights on earth to guide him. The beacon lights in the heavens would have guided him anywhere.
It seemed to him that he reached Hartford, the capital city of Connecticut, in no time. Below him he could see the lights of the city, stretching in long rows for miles, like orchards of lights. Ever so plainly he could see the familiar landing field, where the pilots stop to pick up mail. It was all aglow with its encircling white boundary lights, its green lights that show the descending pilot the best way of approach, its red markers on top of buildings and telephone poles, to tell the pilot where danger lurks aloft, and its clustered lights and beacons at the hangar. Jimmy had been there often and knew the place well.
From Hartford to Springfield was such a mere hop that Jimmy didn’t want to stop when he reached the latter city. If he could not play, at least he could express his feelings by extending this wonderful flight a trifle. He wondered where he should go. Then he thought of an old friend—a lad he had not seen for a long time—another member of the Wireless Patrol—Carl Dexter.
Jimmy had visited him once, after Carl moved away from Pennsylvania. He knew where Carl’s home was. It was in the town of Wilbraham, in Massachusetts, only a few miles from Springfield. Of course, Jimmy had no hope of seeing Carl, but he thought he would fly over the lad’s home and take a look at the region. He liked it greatly, and it held pleasant memories for him. If he could not see Carl he could at least drop him a note, saying that he had passed in the night. Perhaps Carl might even see his plane and remember about the incident. He would circle around the place and perhaps the family might notice his plane. So, instead of landing at Springfield, Jimmy remained in the air.
He flew lazily over the city, to take a look at it by moonlight. He could see everything plainly. There was the peaceful Connecticut River, asleep under the rays of the moon, and the brightly lighted memorial bridge that crossed it. At a distance rose the high tower he had had in mind as a guiding light, with its great lamp glowing aloft. And only a few miles distant, shining almost level with his eyes, was the flashing beacon on Mt. Tom. It was all familiar to Jimmy. He was glad to see it again.
When he had flown over the city, he banked sharply to the right and turned to the east, trying to pick out the clustered lights of the village of Wilbraham, which was less than nine miles distant. In five minutes he was over the place. Just beyond, he could plainly see the bulk of Springfield Mountain. It lay dead ahead of him. At the foot of it he saw a long line of lights that marked the country highway. Here and there shone the lamps of snug little homes. On the slope of the mountain scattered lights betrayed the presence of other country dwellings. If he kept straight on, Jimmy would have to fly right over the mountain. But just now he had no intention whatever of attempting to fly over the mountain. He kicked his rudder and shoved his stick over until he was flying parallel with the ridge. Then cautiously he began to descend. He was trying to find the house in which his friend lived. It was on the slope of the mountain, perhaps a mile or two from the village. Jimmy recalled that fact distinctly.
He dropped down as low as he dared. He was within four hundred feet of the ground. He could see every feature of the landscape sharply in the bright moonlight. But it was a little difficult to pick out one particular house, when he had visited the neighborhood only once and had never seen the region from the air. So he had to swing about in a great circle. That took him a little closer to the mountain than he had intended to fly. But the air was calm and he did not anticipate any danger.
Now, as he circled close to the slope of the hill, he saw, here and there, little homes tucked away in little farms on the wooded side of the mountain. The moonlight glistening on the dewy roofs made them shine out startlingly.
But suddenly he saw something that made him catch his breath. From a window of one of these hillside homes flames were licking upward. At first Jimmy doubted his own eyes. But a second glance told him he was not mistaken. The flames grew swiftly in intensity, and leaping tongues of fire were soon shooting from several windows. Even from his position high in the air Jimmy could see that the fire was in the first floor of the building. The flames were now lighting the place up brightly.
Jimmy came down a little lower and circled above the house. Nowhere could he see a sign of life. He glanced at his clock. It was almost ten-thirty. “All abed and sound asleep,” muttered Jimmy. “They’ll all be roasted sure if some one doesn’t waken them.”
He circled lower. Nowhere could he see a soul. Yet the place had the appearance of being inhabited. Close by, in the barnyard, Jimmy saw cattle. Then heknewthe place was occupied. Now he saw a dog running about excitedly. Meantime, the flames grew brighter and brighter. The first floor windows were fairly belching smoke and flames.
Something must be done to save the family so sound asleep in this isolated home. For a second Jimmy glanced about to see if there was a field handy where he could land. It was some distance to the nearest one. Whatever was to be done must be done instantly. There was no time to hunt out a landing place.
Without a moment’s hesitation Jimmy circled back toward the house. He shoved his stick over and nosed his plane downward. Then he gave her the gun. The ship shot earthward like a meteor. She gained tremendous speed. Jimmy flew her straight at the blazing house. When he was so close it seemed as though he could not possibly avoid crashing into the structure, he pulled back on his stick and zoomed up over the housetop, his engine beating with a thunderous roar.
Swiftly he circled and bore back toward the doomed habitation. Again he dived at it, like a hawk after a pigeon, and again he zoomed up over the housetop. His engine, racing at full speed, set the mountain to echoing with mighty reverberations. The dog, the poultry, everything that could make a noise was adding to the uproar, so terrified were they.
Now Jimmy came close to the house and on level keel circled as close to it as he could. All the while his engine was thundering at high speed. Round and round he circled, watching the place closely, hoping that he would accomplish his purpose before it was too late.
At last he saw a head poked from a window. Another followed. The family was at last awake. Jimmy drew a breath of relief and instantly lifted his plane to a higher altitude. He had gotten dangerously close to the tree tops.
There was nothing more he could do in his plane. He wanted to help these unfortunate folks. Perhaps the barn and the live stock could be saved, even if the dwelling was doomed. But Jimmy could give no assistance in a plane. He must get to the ground.
He flew out toward the open farm land. There were fields everywhere. Most of them were too little for his purpose. But not far away he saw a field that seemed to stretch for hundreds of yards along the roadway, which here parallels the mountain. Jimmy could see it plainly in the moonlight. It looked smooth and safe. Jimmy judged it was a mowing, or hayfield. He swooped toward it. At the far end of the field he could dimly discern on a little ridge of land a great barn with a huge silo. A low white dwelling rose between it and the road. The sight reassured him. The fieldmustbe a smooth mowing. He felt certain now that he could land in safety. He circled, so as to approach the field again from the lower end, dropped a flare, switched on his landing lights, and came down sharply over the trees that lined the end of the field. He could see well. He noticed that the field sloped upward slightly toward the distant house and barn. Bringing his plane down almost to the earth, he straightened her out, and just as his wheels were about to touch the ground lifted her nose a trifle. A second later he set her down perfectly, shut off his gas, and let the ship roll up the little slope to a standstill.
Jimmy was out of the ship and out of his parachute like a flash. But already near-by dwellers were collecting around his plane.
“There’s a house on fire on the mountain,” cried Jimmy. “Everybody in it was sound asleep until I woke them a moment ago. They need help. They may be burning to death. Come on. Who knows the way?”
“This way,” shouted a lad who had just come up. “Follow me.”
The entire group raced after him, as he ran down the highway, then turned into a wood road that led directly up the slope of the mountain.
Now it was plain enough that something was burning. Through the trees shone a red glare, and the sky above was rosy with the flames. Showers of sparks could be seen shooting skyward. The wood road appeared to lead directly toward the burning house, which was located at no great distance from the main highway.
Up the road they raced as fast as they could travel. The entire countryside seemed to be lighted by the fire. In no time they reached the burning building. The first floor was a mass of flames, and the fire was rapidly eating its way to the roof. The owner had escaped, with his wife and two children; but a grown lad, who slept on the third floor, was trapped and could be seen leaning from an attic window. The father was trying to rescue him.