On the way back to the office, Tim mulled over the events of the last
few weeks. First the attack on the transcontinental air mail, then the
warning note from the Sky Hawk, his gruff reception at the Ace air
circus field and finally his discovery of the tailskid track on a day
that was rotten for flying. Only a flyer with an urgent mission would
think of flying with the weather conditions what they were and yet
someone had evidently landed at the Ace field within the last few
minutes.
Tim felt that the gods who hold the threads of fate were weaving a new
pattern and that he was being drawn deeper and deeper into it. The
flying reporter was seldom blue, but something in the air, the very
grayish color of the day depressed him and he was moody when he reached
the office.
"What's the matter, Tim?" asked Dan Watkins, the venerable head of the
copy desk. "You look like you'd lost your last friend. Suppose you're
mad because all this rainy weather is keeping you tied down and you have
to associate with us earthworms." Dan chuckled at his own sally.
"I don't know what's the matter, Dan," admitted Tim. "I feel all
restless and stirred up inside--unsettled."
The head copy reader looked intently at the flying reporter and what he
saw in the usually clear blue eyes brought forth his next words.
"Get your hat, Tim," he invited, "and come out and have lunch with me.
It will do you good to get out of this stuffy atmosphere."
Tim welcomed the invitation and Dan guided him down a side street to a
cheery little restaurant. There was little conversation until they had
given their orders for lunch.
On their way to the restaurant Watkins had carefully appraised Tim,
recalled everything he could remember about the boy, and had reached a
decision. He started the conversation over the white-topped table.
"I know what's troubling you, Tim," he began. "You're afraid you'll get
in a rut. Right?"
Tim nodded, his eyes on fingers which were fumbling nervously with the
silverware.
"I guess that's about right," he admitted, his voice low. "I don't want
to be a flying reporter all my life and I'm afraid I haven't the
background to get ahead. But there's something more than that." And Tim
told the copy reader about the note from the Sky Hawk.
"Don't let that worry you, Tim," advised the veteran newspaper man. "It
may be only a joke; it may not, but whatever it is, I have confidence
you'll be able to take care of yourself. Right now there is something we
want to thresh out. A minute ago you said you didn't think you had the
background to get ahead. What do you mean by that?"
"Well, I've only had a high school education and it takes more than that
to get ahead in the modern newspaper world. I've got a fine job now,
piloting the new plane, but in a few years I won't be fast enough for
that. Then what? Oh, maybe the weather has made me blue, but I've gotten
into an awful muddle."
"I think you have," agreed the veteran of the copy desk, "and it looks
like it's high time for your uncle Dan to straighten things out for
you."
"I've seen lots of young chaps go through this same trouble," he went
on. "Some of them snapped out of it while others went under. But listen
to me, Tim," and there was rare charm and power in the words, "You must
never let this thing get your goat. You're made of too fine material."
Tim started to reply but Dan waved his words aside.
"You have the opportunity of a lifetime," he continued. "Here you
are--young, capable, and with aviation in its swaddling clothes. Within
ten years it will be a giant among giants and the newspaper man who
knows aviation from the ground up will be in an enviable position--a
position to command real power and respect."
There was new interest in Tim's eyes and he drank in Dan Watkins' words.
"You're luckier than you know," added the head copy reader, "for you
have behind you a great newspaper organization. Someday, and someday
soon, the News will need an aviation editor. Someone who knows the air
from A to Z, someone with nerves and brains and foresight, and there
isn't a reason in the world why you shouldn't fill that editorial chair
when the time comes. Don't get moody, don't get discouraged. I know the
weather gets a fellow's nerves once in a while but you must learn to
pull yourself over those rough spots."
"I think you're right about the future for an aviation editor," agreed
Tim, "and that's one of the things that has put me in the dumps lately.
The field is so big and I know so little about it. When the time comes
to select an editor I'm afraid Carson will pass me by and pick a man
with more education."
"You can remedy that, Tim," said Dan. "You can take work at night school
and I have a fine library at my room. I'd be only too glad to lend you
some of my books and suggest reading material that will help you. You'll
have to hit the line hard, Tim, but you've got the stuff to do it. And
besides, Carson likes you and when he knows you are trying to better
yourself it will make a big difference with him."
Tim's face was aglow with new hope and courage. "I'll work hard," he
promised. "I love the flying game; it's becoming life itself to me and I
want to keep on but I won't be satisfied unless I'm something more than
a flying reporter."
"I admire your ambition, but don't be too impatient now, Tim,"
counselled the copyreader. "As a matter of fact you've gone a lot
further than most young fellows your age."
"The growth of aviation is going to be like the growth of the
newspapers. The young fellows who had plenty of foresight back in 1890
and 1900 are the big men of today. I started in the print shop back in
the home town, sweeping out and sorting lead slugs. Got fifty cents a
week and thought it was big pay. Next thing, I was setting type by hand
out of a case. Used to sit on a high stool from 7 o'clock in the morning
until night and the day before we went to press we used to work half the
night." Dan smiled a little at the thoughts of the old days.
"When we first read about Mergenthaler and his typesetting machine, we
thought he was a nut of some kind. But a few believed in him and today
they are the leaders in the newspaper business."
"We used to print our weekly paper on a Washington hand press, and it
took us all day to get out a few hundred copies. Now even the weeklies
have modern presses while the dailies turn out 36, 48 and 56 page papers
by the thousands every hour."
"The same revolution has taken place in the editorial rooms. When I
first came to work on the News we had one dinky little telegraph wire
that brought only a few hundred words of news a day. We'd take that and
pad it out and also used the scissors liberally to cut dispatches out of
the big eastern papers. We never knew from one week to another whether
our pay checks were good and it was always a race to see who could get
to the bank first."
Dan paused for a moment, then he continued, "But look at the office
today. A dozen reporters, an editor to handle every department, half a
dozen telegraph wires that bring the news from every corner of the world
and even an airplane to ferret out the stories in the clouds."
Tim smiled at the last phrase.
"The aviation game is like a newspaper," went on the copyreader. "The
newspaper went through its baby days and has emerged into one of the
greatest institutions of our modern times. So it will be with aviation.
I scoffed at the first strides of modern journalism, and look where I
am." There was no note of self-pity in the words, simply a plain
statement of fact, and Dan hurried on before Tim could speak.
"I'm only a copyreader while if I had been alert to realize the
possibilities way back in the nineties, I might have been the head of
this paper or some other like it. I don't want you to miss your chance
Tim. You're alert and eager now; keep on that way and I'll help you all
I can."
When Tim left the office that afternoon the rain was still falling
steadily but he did not feel depressed. He was fired with new enthusiasm
and determination. Far into the night he mulled over Dan Watkins' words
and he knew that the older man's advice was sound and true. It was a
goal Tim had hardly dared dream to attain and one that at times had made
his heart ache at the futility of his dreams. But the kindly counsel of
the older man had set his mind into new channels of thought and given
him the impetus he needed. It was a long, hard road to follow but before
he went to sleep, Tim had determined to throw his every energy toward
attainment of his goal.
When Tim reached the office the next morning he found Ralph Parsons
waiting for him, a camera on his desk.
"Hurry up, Tim," called his chum. "Carson just phoned down and ordered
us out on an assignment. They say that the Cedar River is flooding the
entire country over east. Worst high water in twenty-five years, and he
wants some good pictures for this afternoon's editions. We'll have to
hustle."
While Ralph was talking, Tim telephoned to the airport and ordered the
Lark serviced and put on the line ready to go. It was raining hard but
the weather bulletin indicated clearing weather by mid-forenoon so they
would have a chance to get some good pictures when they reached the
valley.
Tim and Ralph skidded through the city in one of the News' cars and when
they reached the airport found the Lark ready for them, its motor
turning over slowly.
Hunter came out of his office.
"It's a bad morning for a takeoff," he warned Tim. "What in thunder is
bringing you out on a day like this?"
"We've got a report of a big flood in the Cedar River valley," said Tim,
"and Ralph's going to try for some pictures if the rain clears up."
Hunter grunted, then said, "Better keep over to the north side of the
field, Tim, and get her off as quick as you can. The other end of this
flat is under a good foot of water and it's all pretty much of a swamp."
Tim and Ralph waved at the manager of the field, Tim gave the Lark full
throttle, and they sloshed over the field and got away to a sluggish
takeoff. The muck and water sucked at the Lark's wheels and it was with
an effort that Tim got his craft into the air.
Once clear of the field, he headed into the east. The ceiling was low
that morning; not over 500 feet, and the Lark thundered over farms and
small towns at better than 100 miles an hour. Tim piloted wholly by
compass but after forty-five minutes of flying they ran out of the rain
and the sky began to clear. When they sighted the Cedar River valley the
sun was out from behind the clouds for the first time in days.
A scene of majestic destruction unfolded itself as Tim swung the Lark
over the valley of the Cedar. The usually peaceful stream was on a
mighty rampage, its banks hidden by swirling torrents of dirty, yellow
water which spread for more than a mile in either direction. In the
heart of the foaming flood could be seen great trees, torn up by their
roots, and farm buildings that bobbled and turned as if in protest. Over
all there was an air of utter desolation, the surrender of man to the
wrath of the elements.
Tim was fascinated by the terrible splendor of the scene, and he banked
the Lark gracefully as Ralph took picture after picture of the great
flood. To the south Tim sighted a cluster of buildings marooned in the
center of the raging stream. He turned the plane and sped toward them.
In another minute he recognized the village of Auburn, the scene of his
first exploit as a flying reporter. The once peaceful hamlet, which, he
remembered, had been on the right bank of the Cedar, was surrounded by
the rampant waters. While Tim circled the village, Ralph managed to
secure two graphic pictures of the marooned village.
Tim could see a little group gathered in front of the general store and
once he thought they were gesturing to him, but he dared not go closer.
Motor trouble at any lower altitude would mean a plunge into the flood.
A few minutes before noon Tim dropped the crimson-winged Lark down out
of the clouds and skidded over the muddy field. He uncurled his legs and
got stiffly out of the cockpit. Ralph hopped down beside him, his camera
under his arm.
They left orders for mechanics at the field to take care of the plane
and then headed toward the city in the car they had left at the field.
"That's some flood," said Ralph as they sped toward the office. "I
didn't think there was so much water in the whole world."
Tim was preoccupied and his words were slow in coming.
"I'm wondering how things are at Auburn," said he. "With communication
cut off, they might be in bad shape. Wish we could have gone lower but I
didn't dare, and we had to get your plates back as soon as possible."
When they entered the editorial office, the managing editor was waiting
for them.
"Get 'em?" he demanded.
"You bet," said Ralph, "some dandies," and he laid his camera with its
graphic record of the flood, on the managing editor's desk.
Carson hurriedly made out a rush order for the engraving room and sent a
copy boy scurrying away with the camera. In less than an hour they would
appear on the front page of the noonday extra, a real scoop over every
other paper in town.
When Tim and Ralph went out for lunch, the sky was overcast again with
hurrying rain clouds and the city was shrouded in a pall of low-lying
clouds and heavy smoke. They were gone not more than half an hour but
when they returned Carson beckoned at them, one ear glued to a telephone
receiver. He was writing rapidly, occasionally asking a tense question.
When he had finished he turned to Tim.
"This is bad, Tim," said the managing editor. "That little town of
Auburn that you flew over this morning had been isolated for four days
now. They're getting low on food and typhoid has broken out in the
village. There isn't a boat left in the village and even if trucks could
get near there with boats, the river is so churned up they wouldn't be
able to get out to the village. I've just talked to the owner of the
general store at Auburn. He'd taken to a barn door and trusted to luck
that the current would take him ashore. He got through safely and called
us from Applington. They're appealing to us to do something."
"Get me the food and serum they need and I'll drop it to them in less
than two hours," replied Tim rising to the challenge in the managing
editor's eyes.