“We ought to be able to do it, Mr. Johnson. Of course, it depends upon what the flying is like farther north. But right here the air is quiet enough. At the very least, I could fly until I was forced down. Then I’d be just so much nearer the spot, and could doubtless get there quickly by motor. The only difficulty is the one of landing. There are no beacon lights to guide me and no illuminated landing fields. A fellow always runs a chance of 'washing out’ a ship when he lands in the dark.”
“Then you don’t think it advisable to attempt the trip to-night?”
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Johnson. I’m going to make the trip. But I wanted you to understand the difficulties. I’ve been over the route, and I can cover it again without difficulty. The night is clear and there is starlight enough to illuminate things a little. I know a number of people at Smithville. I’ll wire to the postmaster and ask him to burn a bucket of gasoline in the field where I landed last winter. I can get down all right, I’m sure. But the wire facilities are not very good up there.”
“All right. I’ll get into touch with the Western Union and see if we can’t get a wire ready for your use. You make whatever arrangements are necessary and get off as soon as you can. How long should it take you to reach Smithville?”
“Unless I have to fight a stiff wind, I ought to make it in two hours and a half. It’s almost nine now. I ought to get there by midnight at latest. In two hours more I ought to have a story on the wire for you. We ought to catch the city edition without difficulty.”
“Very well, make your arrangements and get off. Have your mechanic telephone me the moment you start.”
Jimmy instantly called the Western Union and dictated a telegram to the postmaster of Smithville, asking him to burn a bucket of gasoline in the best landing field possible, when Jimmy approached and circled the town. Unless held up by wind, he said, he should be due in two hours and a half. Then, without waiting for a reply, Jimmy hopped off as soon as he could.
Straight up the Hudson flew Jimmy, speeding along at 120 miles an hour, the pace he knew he must make to land him at Smithville within the designated time. He had no trouble in following the Hudson to Albany, nor in going up the Mohawk to Rome. His troubles began after he left that point and started to follow the railroad to Smithville, for the wind, which had been freshening ever since he left Albany, was now blowing half a gale. But it was a quartering wind for Jimmy and did not delay him nearly so much as a head wind would have done. It did make the flight very rough and bumpy. But Jimmy wisely flew at a good altitude, even though the wind was stiffer up high, and in a little more than two hours and a half was approaching Smithville.
He could make out the tossing expanse of the lake. The lights of Smithville showed him exactly where the village was, and his memory told him just where the field should be in which he had once landed. He nosed his ship downward and started a big swing around the town. Lower and lower he glided, waiting for the expected flare. He was sure his running lights must be visible from the ground, for the night was still perfectly clear, though he was not so certain that the roar of his motor could be heard. The blustering of the wind might drown out the sound. At any rate, they would be looking for him, and they would see him. So he eased his plane earthward, gliding lower and lower, and waiting for the flare.
Suddenly it came. A burst of flame sprang up, though it was not where Jimmy had expected to see it at all. It lighted up a wide expanse of land. The place looked wet to Jimmy, but he could not be sure about that. At any rate, it undoubtedly was the best landing place possible. He knew his friends would not pick out any other landing place. So Jimmy shoved his stick over a little more, shut off his engine, and glided down. He leveled his ship off, let her lose flying speed, and set her down. Instantly he knew that something was wrong. Water began to fly. His wheels gave forth squdgy, wallowing sounds. In a second his plane bogged down. Over she nosed into the soft ground. His propeller was bent almost double. His under-carriage seemed to give way. His engine plowed into the mud. His tail was standing high in air.
Fortunately Jimmy had braced himself at the first sound of splashing water. He was thrown forward, and though his face was somewhat cut and he suffered several hard bumps, he was not really injured. Instantly he cut his switch and shut off the gas. Then he leaped from the plane to see what had happened. He found he was in the centre of a great stretch of bog. His plane was hopelessly mired and out of commission for days.
At a distance he saw men with lanterns. He splashed through the swampy ground toward them. They came hurrying in his direction. Foremost was the village postmaster.
“What in thunder did you make a flare in a swamp for?” demanded Jimmy, mad as hops. “My plane is completely out of commission.”
“We did just what you asked us to do,” replied the postmaster, somewhat taken aback by Jimmy’s fiery greeting.
“What I askedyouto do!” said Jimmy. “Why, I asked you to light a flare in the best landing place available. Is that your idea of a good landing place for a plane?”
“But in your second telegram you said to put the flare in a swampy place as you would fly still farther north from here and your ship still wore skis.”
“My second telegram! My ship still wore skis! I never sent you any second telegram. I never told you I had skis on my ship.”
“Well, somebody did. Here’s the telegram. It’s signed New YorkMorning Press.” And the postmaster fished out of his pocket two yellow telegram blanks and thrust them into Jimmy’s hand.
“Somebody has played another trick on me,” said Jimmy. “But it won’t do any good. My ship may be disabled, but I am not. There’s still the telegraph to fall back upon. I can get a message back to New York that way.”
“But you’ll need your plane to fly out to the wreck.”
“Thunderation!” said Jimmy. “Isn’t there a boat to be had?”
“Yes, but it’s terribly rough. Nobody around here would go out on the lake in a sea like the one that’s running now.”
“Well, can I get the story of the wreck here?”
“No. Nobody knows a thing about it except that the ship has piled up on the nearest island. We can see her with our glasses. But that’s all we know. That’s all we had to send to the newspapers.”
“Isn’t there any boat that can make it out to the island? I’ll pay anybody well who’ll take me out.”
“The only fellow who would dare it is that bootlegger who held you up on your former trip here. He stops at nothing. He’s got a boat specially made for rough weather.”
“Where is he?” asked Jimmy. “Can I get in touch with him?”
“Yes, you can. He’s been in town for several days. The lake has been too rough even for him. I’ll show you where he hangs out.” And the postmaster tramped off, with Jimmy at his side and a group of villagers following behind them.
They found the rum runner. The man jumped up suspiciously as they entered the house where he was staying. He glanced from the postmaster to Jimmy and back again. At first he did not know the stranger. But before the postmaster could say a word he remembered Jimmy’s face. Instantly he held out his hand.
“Hello, Kid,” he said. “I reckon I know what brings you back here. You gave me a ride across the lake some time ago and I suspect you want one in return? Do I win or lose on that guess?”
“You win,” said Jimmy, shaking the fellow’s hand. “I want a ride and I want it bad.”
“You can get it,” said the rum runner. “I’ve been out studying the lake for the last half hour. The waves is dyin’ down fast. I’ve got a boat that’ll make it easy. Once we get in the lee of the island, there won’t be nothin’ to it—absolutely nothin’.”
“How soon can we start?”
“Right off. Come on.”
The bootlegger’s power boat proved to be a tremendously sturdy craft, with high prow, a deep cabin roofed over, and the tiniest of cockpits in the stern, where there was also an engine that appeared to be of great power. Jimmy and the owner climbed aboard. The latter turned on an electric light.
“Put this on,” he said, handing Jimmy a lifebelt. Then he drew on another himself.
He started his motor and let it run quietly a few moments to heat up. Then he opened the throttle to test it. The engine answered with a roar as powerful as that of Jimmy’s plane. The ship strained at her hawsers.
“Now, Kid, you go inside the cabin and sit down. You’re likely to get hurt if you don’t. If it gets too rough for you, just lay right down in a bunk. Don’t take no chances on breakin’ an arm or somethin’.”
Jimmy obeyed. The rum runner threw off his lines. He opened his throttle. The ship left her little harbor. In a moment she was tossing wildly on the waves of the open lake. The owner gave his engine more gas. The craft forged ahead. Jimmy had never had such a ride. Like a chip in a whirlpool the little boat was thrown about. Now it leaped high upward. Now it dropped downward with a suggestiveness that almost made Jimmy sick. Now it struck a huge wave, that came crashing back over it, and the impact made the sturdy craft tremble and quiver. But all the time it bored straight through the sea, its motor roaring, its propeller whirling wildly as the stern was thrown up out of the water. At times it plunged headlong down the slope of a great wave, only to go crashing into the following crest. It shook and shivered. It groaned and creaked. But not for one instant did the motor falter or its deep-throated roar subside.
Almost before he knew it, Jimmy found himself in calmer water. The boat still rose and fell. It still rocked and swayed. But there was a perceptible difference in its motions. They were less violent. The sea was not so turbulent. The craft wallowed less in the waves. And the farther they went the smoother their passage continued to grow.
Jimmy rightly guessed that the boat was in the lee of the island. It was, in fact, driving into a little cove or bay, well protected, on the leeward side of the island. When Jimmy looked out and saw land to right and left of him he was amazed. They had made the trip to the island in astonishingly little time. Despite wind and wave, the rum runner’s powerful boat had crossed the three miles of water with great speed. Now the craft ran swiftly up the little bay and slid to a grating stop at a little landing at the very end of the cove.
“Come on,” said the rum runner, making his boat fast. “I’ll take you over to the wreck.”
Rapidly he led the way across the island, which just here was hardly a mile wide. Then the two made their way out to the end of a long point of land, on the tip of which lay the stranded vessel. It was driven far up on the sands. Only a few hundred feet of water separated it from the shore. But those few hundred feet were frightful to behold. On this windward side of the island the sea was terrible. Huge waves came roaring in from the open lake, to crash against the helpless ship and go thundering completely over it. Jimmy looked at the scene with an awe that bordered on terror. Never before had he beheld such an exhibition of the fury of wind and wave.
Near by was a cottage. Lights still shone in the windows.
“The folks in that house ought to be able to tell us something about the wreck,” shouted Jimmy to his companion. “Let’s go talk to them.”
They walked to the cottage and knocked at the door. It was opened promptly and they stepped inside. A great fire was blazing in the hearth. Before it sat a man half dressed. Articles of clothing were hanging before the blaze. The man seemed distressed.
Jimmy introduced himself to the cottager. The man recalled him at once as the flier who had brought help from the city during the winter.
“What brings you here now? Is there anything I can do for you?” asked the islander.
“I came to get the story of this stranded vessel. Perhaps you can tell me something about it.”
“I can,” said the cottager, “but this man can tell you far more. He is the mate of the ship. He was swept overboard and was all but drowned before we got him ashore. He can tell you everything.”
Jimmy sat down and began to talk to him. Reluctantly at first, then eagerly as he found relief in conversation, the man related his story: how the ship had put out from port at the first possible moment with a cargo of freight and a considerable passenger list; how progress had been incredibly slow because of the heavy ice; how the storm had caught them only a few miles off shore; how the steamer’s propeller had been broken by ice; and how she had then drifted helplessly before the wind, finally to crash on the beach before them, with the loss of many lives, and the probable loss of many more. For it was impossible to get to the ship with the sea as it was, and the vessel was breaking up. It was only a question of hours until it would go to pieces. Of all those washed overboard—probably a score or more—the mate was the only one who had reached the shore alive.
For an hour Jimmy talked with the downcast sailor. He plied the man with a hundred questions. He got every detail of the trip, from the start to the present moment. And he secured many names of passengers and crew. Then thanking the sailor and the cottager, he took his leave, accompanied by his rum-running friend.
“Have you got all the facts you want?” asked the latter.
“I’ve got all I have time to get now. I must put what I have on the wire. Later I can get more details and in the morning some pictures.”
They hurried to the boat, boarded it, and crossed to the mainland, running before wind and wave. Their speed amazed Jimmy. They made the crossing in no time at all. Jimmy rushed to the telegraph office, which he found open and waiting for him, with an extra operator who had been ordered on duty especially to forward Jimmy’s story. Jimmy wrote a few lines and handed them to the operator. Then, with the telegraph key clicking in his ear, he wrote and wrote, tearing off sheet after sheet from his pad and handing each sheet to the operator as fast as it was written. When he laid the last sheet before the operator he glanced at the clock. It was half past two. Jimmy smiled with happiness. He had “caught” the city edition.
As Jimmy and his new friend came out of the telegraph office they heard the hum of a plane overhead. Down came a ship, circling, and settling cautiously lower. Then it dropped a flare, turned its landing lights on, and glided safely to earth in a big field. Two men got out of it—the pilot and a passenger. They hurried over to Jimmy and the rum runner. In the dark Jimmy did not recognize them.
“Is there any way we can get to the island, where that ship is wrecked?” demanded one of them. “We’ll pay well to get there.”
Jimmy bristled with anger as he heard the voice. It was Rand’s. Jimmy’s rum-running friend turned to him. “What about it? Shall I take them over?”
“Not if you’re a friend of mine,” said Jimmy. “This fellow is my worst enemy. He has played me no end of dirty tricks, and I think he played me one this very night.”
“Then I don’t take him,” said the bootlegger. “Let him get to the island the best way he can.”
They turned away from the newcomers. Rand was swearing furiously. But Jimmy paid no attention to him and presently was beyond the sound of his voice. Briefly he told his friend of the difficulties he had had with Rand. “I’m just as sure as I can be that now I know who sent that second telegram here that pulled me down in the bog and put my ship out of commission. I don’t know what I am going to do, for I had expected to fly out to the ship and get some photographs at sunrise and then rush them to New York. The local correspondents can finish up the story.”
“Don’t you worry about no pictures,” said the rum runner. “I got my airplane all fixed up—new motor and everything. She’s right at hand, and come daybreak we’ll go git them pictures and then start for New York. I got business down that way and I’ll be glad to make the trip. You done me a fine service once and I ain’t never goin’ to forget it.”
CHAPTER XVII
Jimmy Triumphs Over Rand
When Jimmy and his lawless friend from the border reached New York late the next morning with the first photographs of the wreck to arrive in that city and with some additional facts about the wreck, the rum runner wanted to say good-bye at once, but Jimmy would not consent to this. He insisted that they go see the managing editor. Finally the bootlegger, whose name was LaRoche, agreed, and early that afternoon the two met again at theMorning Pressbuilding. They were at once admitted to the managing editor’s office.
“Well, Jimmy, you seem to have had another interesting adventure,” said Mr. Johnson, as he welcomed his subordinate. “I’m mighty glad you got out of it safe and sound.”
Jimmy introduced LaRoche to Mr. Johnson, then said: “You speak of my having another adventure, Mr. Johnson. What do you refer to?”
“Why, to your trip out to the island through the storm last night. I judge that was an experience you won’t soon forget.”
“For me it was an adventure,” said Jimmy, “though to Mr. LaRoche it was a very ordinary experience, I judge. I shall not soon forget it. Nor shall I forget the other adventure I had.”
“The other adventure! You speak in riddles, Jimmy.”
Jimmy told his chief about the beacon in the bog, about his landing in a swamp and being hopelessly disabled, and about the two telegrams received by the postmaster of Smithville.
While Jimmy was talking he could not fail to notice the countenance of his chief. The most extraordinary expressions followed one another on the managing editor’s face. Interest, amazement, concern, and finally an expression of angry determination were all momentarily portrayed on Mr. Johnson’s expressive countenance.
“Now I understand everything,” said he.
Jimmy waited for enlightenment.
“While you have been gathering a story of heroism and death in the north,” said the managing editor, “I have been picking up one of cowardice and treachery here in New York. I didn’t fully understand what it all meant until I heard what you have just told me. Now I comprehend it all. Your story and mine make a beautiful mosaic. They dovetail together into a completed tale. Would you like to hearmyend of that tale?”
Jimmy was all eagerness. “I can’t imagine what you have in mind,” said Jimmy, “but of course I want to hear about it.”
“Very well, here it is. Your friend, Mr. LaRoche, will be interested, too. He has had some small part in the story, too.”
Both the managing editor’s hearers looked their astonishment.
“When you set out for Smithville last night, Jimmy,” began the managing editor, “we did everything we could possibly do at this end to make your flight both safe and successful. I sent you reluctantly. I knew flying conditions could not be any too good in a region where a great steamer had just been blown ashore. The fact is, I was a little conscience-smitten, I guess. Your narrow escape at Mingoville has been constantly in my mind. But I allowed you to go—yes, I even urged you to go—and after you had taken off I began to worry about you and so I quite naturally left nothing undone to insure the safety of your trip.”
Both Jimmy and his companion were completely mystified. They sat in silent expectation, waiting for what was to follow.
“First of all,” continued Mr. Johnson, “I sent Johnnie Lee over to your hangar. There was nothing in particular for him to do except to be there in case you should send back any radio messages as you flew. You see, I have learned about your Wireless Patrol and how skilful all you boys are with the wireless. So it occurred to me that Johnnie might be able to handle a radio conversation better than almost anybody else on the staff. Johnnie went over to the flying field immediately.”
The managing editor paused as though to arrange his thoughts. After a moment he continued. “Johnnie seems to be very wide awake. He evidently nosed around the field and soon learned that theDespatchman was having trouble to get his plane into the air. TheDespatchno doubt received the flash about the wreck of the lake steamer at the same time we got it. Its plane should have taken the air as quickly as you got aloft with our ship, Jimmy. But something went wrong with it. An hour after you had departed, the pilot and his mechanics were still working desperately to get the ship into shape to fly. Johnnie didn’t know what was wrong, and of course he didn’t make inquiries in a rival’s hangar. But he did discover that the reporter who was to be flown in the plane was the fellow he had seen at the coal mine disaster at Krebs. He knew that the fellow had played you some dirty tricks, and he decided he would keep an eye on him.”
“You bet Johnnie would,” interrupted Jimmy. “He’s a real friend.”
“Well,” continued the managing editor, “this chap Johnnie was watching. Rand presently went to the office in his hangar. Johnnie strolled over that way and peeped in. Rand was standing by a closet in the rear of the office. The door was open only part way, but Johnnie could see that Rand was talking into a telephone receiver that stood on a shelf in this closet. This seemed queer to Johnnie, because there on the desk was the regular instrument. Johnnie tiptoed close to a window, which was open a crack for ventilation. He was in the dark and could not be seen. He heard Rand say something about ‘skis on a plane’ and ‘flying farther north from there.’ Johnnie of course couldn’t make anything out of that, and quite naturally he never connected the message with your flight.”
Jimmy drew a long breath. “I understand the whole story now,” he said.
“Not quite, Jimmy. Let me go on. Rand got off eventually and the force at Rand’s hangar went home. Johnnie came back to our hangar. But there wasn’t a thing to do, aside from making frequent inquiries at the radio office, and he got to wondering about that queer telephone he had seen Rand use. So he picked up a flash-light, slipped into Rand’s office, which was unlocked, and went to the closet. It was locked. Johnnie had his keys and with one of them was able after a little effort to unlock the closet. There was the telephone, on a separate wire, which came up through the floor. You know how ramshackle those hangars are. Well, Johnnie was able to trace that wire. And where do you think it ran?”
“I don’t know,” said Jimmy.
“It was spliced to our own telephone wire. In short, Rand had tapped the wire in our hangar, so he could overhear our conversations.”
“Quite evident,” said Jimmy. “But what I don’t understand is why Rand wastallyingon our wire. That would give him away, sure.”
“I couldn’t have understood it either, had it not been that I had occasion to talk to a Western Union man. I had already arranged to have the wire at Smithville opened for you, Jimmy, but about three hours after you took off I had to call the telegraph people again. And it was only by the merest chance that the matter was mentioned then. The fellow I was talking with remarked that he had just come down from Canada and that unless my reporter was going pretty far north, he would have trouble landing on skis. I didn’t know what he meant. That brought out the fact that a second telegram had been sent about the matter of a landing ground at Smithville. I knew you had no skis on your plane now and I said there must be a mistake about the message. The telegraph official assured me that you had sent a second message from Long Island. When I checked up on the time the message was sent, I saw right away what had happened. Some one had sent a message in your name. We traced the call and it came over our wire.”
The managing editor paused. “Please go on,” said Jimmy, who was sitting tensely on the edge of his chair.
“Well, I got in touch with Johnnie over at the field. He had just ferreted out the secret telephone wire. It was easy enough then to put two and two together. But the thing that worried me was the plight you were in, Jimmy. I knew that unless you had had a mishap on the way, you were already at Smithville. Whatever was to happen had already happened. I got a connection on the telephone with the postmaster up there—the fellow you said you knew—and he said you had gone out on the lake with Mr. LaRoche here, and that nobody in the town expected to see you come back alive. So you can understand how anxious I was and how tremendously pleased I was when your story began to come in. By the way, Jimmy, what about your plane? What is to be done about it?”
“Oh, I have already arranged about that. The plane isn’t really hurt any. The propeller is gone, and maybe the undercarriage is damaged some. But the ship itself is all right. I left directions for the plane to be pulled out on firm land and cleaned thoroughly. They are to wire me as soon as this is done and tell me if anything is needed. Then I shall go up there with my mechanic and put on a new prop and make any other repairs necessary. I don’t think the job will amount to much.”
“You were mighty lucky, Jimmy, and we were all tremendously relieved when we found you were safe. Of course we are pleased about the story. We scooped the town, as I suppose you already know. But that was a small matter alongside of your safety.”
“What I want to know,” said Jimmy, trying to change the subject, “is what to do about Rand. He is a poor loser. Every time I beat him he tries some underhand work. What am I to do about it? I could beat him up, and I once threatened to do it; but that would not stop him from attempting these dirty tricks.”
“Jimmy,” said Mr. Johnson, “you are not to do anything about Rand. I will attend to that. In fact, I have already attended to it. Here is a letter I have written to him. In it I have told him that we have absolute proof of his dirty work that might well have cost you your life at Smithville. What he did will without doubt constitute a crime in the eyes of the law. I have told him as much. I have also told him that unless he resigns from theDespatch, gets out of newspaper work entirely, and promises never again to attempt in any way to interfere with you, I shall hale him into court and stop at nothing until I see him behind prison bars.”
“Do you think he will resign?”
“Jimmy, if this case ever went to court, and we spread on the records all we know, not only about this case but about other dastardly things he has done, Rand would be so discredited that no editor would ever again hire him, and he might find it difficult to get a job of any sort whatever. I’m mightily mistaken about Rand if he doesn’t quit cold when he gets my letter. But if he doesn’t, I shall proceed against him at once.”
Jimmy left the office both happy and sorry. He was glad he was to be free from the competition of such a man as Rand. He was sorry that through him misfortune came upon another—even Rand. He said as much to LaRoche.
“Forget, Kid,” replied the rum runner. “You’re a square shooter clear through. Otherwise I wouldn’t never have had nothin’ to do with you. But this other fellow is only a rattlesnake. You hadn’t nothing to do with his downfall. He brought that on himself. And if it hadn’t come now, through you, it would have come later through some one else.”
Jimmy walked with LaRoche to the latter’s headquarters in a tough riverfront hotel. “You’ve been a real friend to me,” he said. “I appreciate it, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I don’t want no thanks. You’ve been my friend. Don’t you suppose I like the friendship of a kid as white as you are? When you get in trouble again, let me know. You can always count on Henri LaRoche.”
The rum runner held out his hand. Jimmy shook it warmly. “Good-bye and good luck to you,” he said.
At the end of the week Jimmy sauntered into the office to get his pay. There was a notice conspicuously posted on the bulletin board. He stopped to read it. Then a great smile came over his countenance, for this is what he read:
Staff Promotions
Johnnie Lee and Jimmy Donnelly, for excellent work in connection with the coverage of the steamship disaster in Lake Ontario, will each receive a bonus of $50, together with an increase in salary, same to be effective at once.Tom JohnsonManaging Editor.
Johnnie Lee and Jimmy Donnelly, for excellent work in connection with the coverage of the steamship disaster in Lake Ontario, will each receive a bonus of $50, together with an increase in salary, same to be effective at once.
Tom Johnson
Managing Editor.