The burden of the chute slowed the plane. Then it leaped almost
vertically as Ralph attempted to free it from the human burden it was
dragging through the sky. The whole thing required a second, not more
than two, when part of the tail assembly gave way and the chute started
its downward course again. It had been an endless span of years to Tim,
who sobbed aloud as they drifted through the fog.
Lights pierced the mist below and Tim instinctively swung around to
protect Perkins when they landed. But they didn't land. The chute caught
in a maze of telephone wires along one of the main highways on the
outskirts of Atkinson and Tim and Perkins dangled just above the ground.
Passing motorists released them and rushed them to a hospital where
Perkins was given immediate attention and Tim was put to bed after a
thorough massage to ease his strained muscles. But not until he had
telephoned the office and dictated the first part of the story of their
finding of the wreck of the air mail and their sensational trip above
Atkinson with the injured pilot.
Tim, who had been almost forcibly put in bed by the hospital attendants,
was protesting that he had work to do when Ralph burst into the room.
"Are you all right, Tim?" he demanded.
"Sure," replied Tim. "How about yourself and the plane?"
"Both O. K.," said Ralph. "I blew out a couple of tires in landing and
broke the prop, but that's all. How's Perk?"
Tim turned to the head surgeon who had just entered the room.
"He'll be back in the air in a few days," said the surgeon. "He has a
nasty crack on the head and it was a good thing you got him here when
you did. Much more exposure and he would have had pneumonia."
The surgeon had just stepped from the room when the managing editor of
the News hurried in.
"Wonderful work, Tim," said Carson. "Wonderful. We put out an extra on
the story you phoned. Now let's have the rest of it. This Sky Hawk angle
makes it the most thrilling yarn of the year."
For the better part of half an hour, Tim and Ralph related their
experiences while a stenographer took down their story.
The next day the Sky Hawk's daring robbery and their rescue of the air
mail flyer were the talk of the town. Before noon, Tim was visited by
Hunter, who was not only manager of the local field, but representative
for the Transcontinental company.
Hunter looked worried and his words bore out his looks.
"This Sky Hawk is getting to be a nuisance," he told Tim. "He's picked
us for $500,000 and although we had it covered by insurance, it doesn't
help matters any. Old Tom Blair, who heads our company, has wired me to
use every means to apprehend the Sky Hawk. The police and state
officials are doing all they can, but the very nature of his operations
leaves them almost helpless."
"Flying cops are something for the future," smiled Tim.
"And that's just what we need," went on Hunter. "I want you to agree to
help me all you can. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears close to the
ground. You may be able to turn up something the police can't uncover.
And remember, Tim," he grinned, "there'll be something more than just
the fun of a story if you get the Sky Hawk."
"You know I'll do everything I can," replied Tim, as Hunter, weighed
down with his worries, said goodbye.
But the Sky Hawk seemed to have dropped from sight. There was a dearth
of news and the managing editor cast anxious eyes about for interesting
material with which to fill the columns of his paper.
Ever since he had been given the assignment as the flying reporter, Tim
had cherished the hope that some day he would be given permission to
write a daily column on aviation. That day had been particularly quiet
and devoid of stories with interest and to Tim it seemed the right time
to approach his managing editor.
After the rush of the final edition had subsided and the presses were
roaring their symphony of news, Tim accosted the managing editor.
"I'm sure I can give you a column of live news about aviation every day,
Mr. Carson," he said. "We're not running very heavy on news right now
and if you'll give me the space, I'd like to show you what I can do."
"When would you have the time to handle it, Tim?" asked the managing
editor. "I couldn't spare you for two or three hours every day for
that."
"I'm not asking for that," replied Tim. "If you'll give me a column,
I'll write the stories after hours and in the evening. I know most of
the flyers at the field here and then with the chaps who are flying the
air mail, there is an unlimited field for human interest stories. On top
of that, I'm keeping right up on all the developments of aviation. All I
need is the space, Mr. Carson!"
"When do you want to start it?" asked Carson.
"Any time you can give me the room."
"Can you whip a column of material into shape by tomorrow morning?"
"Easily."
"Then have about three pages of copy ready in the morning." The action
was characteristic of Carson. In fact, it was characteristic of
newspaper work with its quick decisions and demands that to any class of
men but reporters would have been insurmountable.
To Tim the demand for a column of copy in the morning was the best news
in weeks and he turned away from the managing editor after expressing
his appreciation for the opportunity.
"Oh, Tim," called Carson. "Better stop on your way down stairs and tell
the engraving department to work up one and two column heads for you.
Have them draw a picture of a plane and put your name under it: By Tim
Murphy, the Flying Reporter of the Atkinson News."
Getting together a column of interesting, readable material on such
short notice would not be easy, especially since Tim wanted his first
column to be alive with interest. After conferring with the head of the
engraving department, Tim hurried out to the municipal field where he
imparted his good luck into the ever-sympathetic ear of Hunter, the
field manager.
"That's fine, Tim," congratulated Hunter. "I know you've wanted to write
a daily column on aviation for a long time. Do you think Carson will
make it a permanent feature of the paper?"
"That all depends on what kind of material I can dig up and how well I
can write it. Means you fellows here at the field will have to cooperate
with me."
"You know we'll do that Tim," promised Hunter. "The boys all like you
mighty well. The only thing is that they are a bit bashful in telling
some of their own experiences. You may have to pry around a bit."
"I expect you're right there," agreed Tim, "but after I get them started
I'll get plenty of material. Now I've got to line up a good feature to
start the column off tomorrow. You know of anything unusual here at the
field?"
Hunter scratched his head and looked meditatively at a cloud as if
seeking inspiration.
"Afraid I'm not much help right now," he said. "Say, wait a minute.
We'll go over to the radio shack and see if there are any late bulletins
on planes coming in tonight."
Tim agreed and they walked over to the little building at the foot of
the radio towers where the department of commerce maintained a station,
part of its transcontinental link of communication to advise airmen on
weather conditions and report the movements of aircraft along the main
skyways.
The operator on duty greeted them cordially and turned his file of
messages over to them. Hunter thumbed through the flimsy sheets of
tissue with experienced fingers. He stopped and read one of the
communications with interest. Then he turned to Tim.
"Here's something that came in within the last hour," he said. "May be
just what you need for a story."
Tim read the tissue and glowed with excitement at what he read. What a
lucky break for him. According to the report, Arthur Winslow, king of
the air mail flyers, would land at the local field within two hours for
an overnight stop.
"That's just what I need," exclaimed Tim. "Why Winslow is rated as the
ace of all airmen. It will make a great yarn if he'll talk."
"There may be some trouble on that point," said Hunter. "I know Winslow
only slightly for he's flying on the west end of the transcontinental
now, and he's mighty reticent when it comes to talking about himself. It
says here that he is ferrying a new passenger and mail plane west."
"Good thing I have a car here," said Tim. "If I can't get a chance at
him any other way I can offer him a ride to the city and he can hardly
refuse to talk then."
"I think he'll help you out if you explain what you want and how badly
you need a good story for the first day your column is printed."
They went into Hunter's office where the manager of the field busied
himself at his desk. Tim dug into the files to secure, in advance, all
of the available material he could about Arthur Winslow, airman without
peer.
The ace of the air mail pilots was not a sensational flyer in the sense
that his name was on the front pages of the newspapers every day. In
fact, he was just the opposite and as he often told his friends, he
didn't care anything about being the best air mail flyer. All he wanted
was to be the oldest.
Winslow had trained Col. Charles A. Lindbergh when he was a fledgling
and before the flying colonel had even dreamed of a flight to Paris, and
he had performed many a heroic deed as he winged his way across the
plains of the middle west of the snow-capped Rockies and the rugged
Sierras.
Tim was still finding valuable material in the files when a mechanic
stuck his head in the door.
"Here comes Winslow," he announced and Tim and Hunter promptly deserted
the office and took their places at one side of the big concrete apron
which marked the end of the main runway on the field.
The plane rapidly took form as it roared out of the east. Winslow swung
low over the field to sight the wind sock, then lined southwest and
floated down to a three point landing. There was nothing startling in
the way he handled his plane but his every move revealed the hand of a
master birdman.
After Winslow had given his orders to the mechanics, he greeted Hunter.
"Winslow," said the field manager as he introduced Tim, "here's a young
newspaper man I want you to know, Tim Murphy of the Atkinson News. I
think Tim is unique in the newspaper world. He's not only a mighty good
reporter but a fine flyer."
Both Tim and Winslow smiled at Hunter's introduction and Tim felt a
friendly tingle as he grasped Winslow's hand.
"I've heard of you," said Winslow.
"And I've heard a great deal about you," replied Tim, "so I guess that
makes us even."
"Tim's up against a tough proposition," said Hunter as they strolled
toward the office. "He wants to run a daily column of aviation in his
paper and only today convinced his managing editor that it ought to be
given a trial. As a result, Tim has to have a column of material ready
early tomorrow morning. On top of that, he's going to do this aviation
column on his own time. He wants it to go over big and become a
permanent part of the paper and so do I. Down here at the field we think
it would be a fine thing and when we saw you were coming in for an
over-night stop, we figured you might be able to give Tim some material
that would be mighty readable."
"I don't think I've done anything very remarkable or anything that would
make good newspaper reading," laughed Winslow, "but if you're willing to
have dinner with me up town, Murphy, we'll see what we can dig up."
Tim was pleased at the invitation and accepted it at once. He was having
even better luck than he had dared dream, and he felt that given enough
time with Winslow, the famous pilot would loosen up and tell him some of
the experiences he had had in his eighteen years of flying.
Hunter excused himself, saying that he had work at the field which
required his attention, and Tim and Winslow got into the car Tim had
brought to the field, and started for town.
They talked of the recent developments in aviation and of the great
increase in the number of air mail lines, but it was not until they were
at dinner that Winslow really started to unburden himself in answer to
Tim's questions.
"When did I start to fly?" mused the veteran of the skyways. "Why that's
so long ago I've almost forgotten the date. You young fellows think of
flying as a development since the war, but I started flying back in 1912
in the days before we had ailerons on the wing tips and used to warp the
wings of our planes to control them."
"You've flown more than anyone else, haven't you?" queried Tim.
"I believe I have," was Winslow's quiet reply. "My record book shows
more than 12,000 hours in the air for a little better than 1,400,000
miles. That would be a long time and a long ways if it were a continuous
flight," he smiled.
Tim liked Winslow when he smiled. There was nothing of the boaster in
this man who was the king of the air. His brown hair looked a little
faded from exposure in thousands of hours of sun and wind and storm, and
there were decided wrinkles on his face, but his eyes were a clear brown
that invited confidence in their owner.
When Tim mentioned the air mail, he struck an especially responsive
chord in Winslow's mind, whose life, for the last ten years, had been a
part of the mail. He had flown the first mail plane from New York to
Washington and later had been one of the pioneer flyers on the
transcontinental.
"Those early days were when we got our thrills," reminisced Winslow. "We
were flying in cast-off army planes that the post office department had
picked up. Our limit was under five hundred pounds of mail and we never
had to worry about being overloaded at that. After the old army
DeHaviland's were put on the junk heap we got Douglas cruisers and there
was a little more regularity to the way we maintained our schedules.
When the post office department turned the air mail over to private
contractors, we were given the best planes money could buy."
"The air mail's grown immensely popular in the last two years hasn't
it?" asked Tim.
"Immensely is hardly the word," said Winslow. "Universally is better,
and it's all since Lindbergh flew the Atlantic and focused popular
interest on aviation. Why this new plane I'm ferrying west is capable of
carrying six passengers and 1,500 pounds of mail and maintaining an
average speed of 130 miles an hour. In two years it will be obsolete and
we'll have bigger and faster planes in its place."
"Didn't you take a mail plane several years ago and brave a Lake
Michigan storm in mid-winter to take food to fishermen marooned on an
island?"
"I was lucky," was Winslow's simple reply. "By the way, I've read
recently how you did a similar stunt only you dropped supplies to a
village cut off by a flood."
"That was luck, too," smiled Tim. "Now I'd like to know if you've ever
had any accidents."
"One," admitted Winslow after some deliberation. "It was pretty serious
and I don't know whether I ought to give it to you or not. But I guess
it won't do any harm," he added and smiled.
"Someone," he said, "parked a plane in the middle of the field at
Blanton one night and when my landing lights didn't work I ran into it
head-on. Result, two damaged planes and one bad temper."
"You mean that's the only accident you've had in more than a million
miles of flying?" asked the incredulous Tim.
"That's all and that's enough," said Winslow. "Flying is safe if you
take the proper precautions. The chaps who get cracked-up are stunting,
have inferior equipment, or are just plain dumb."
"What," asked Tim, "would be the most thrilling flight to you?"
"A hop over the top of the world," replied Winslow. "I've always wanted
to make an Arctic flight and even though Wilkins and Eilson made the
trip from Point Barrow to Spitzbergen, I'm not entirely convinced that
there isn't land somewhere up there. It would be worth a try, anyway,"
and his dark eyes glowed with enthusiasm.
Tim felt a peculiar warmth and thrill of inspiration and Winslow's words
fell on far more fertile soil than he ever dreamed.
"There's just one more question?" said Tim. "Didn't you help train
Lindbergh to fly?"
"Yes, some. We were on the same division of the air mail and saw quite a
lot of each other before he flew to Paris."
"What kind of a fellow was he then?"
"Not much more than a kid, quiet and serious minded. If he had any
thought of flying to Paris when I knew him, he certainly kept it a
secret. He's a wonderful flyer; uses his head and knows every trick in
the game."
They had completed their dinner and Winslow, who was obviously tired
from a long day in the air, asked Tim if he had all the material he
needed for his first column.
"Reams of it, thanks to you," said the flying reporter.
"I'm glad if I have been of any help," replied the veteran of the air
mail. "I think the column will be a fine thing. I hope you make a
success of it, and I'm sure you will. I'm going to turn in now and get a
few hours of sleep."
Tim had been too fascinated with their conversation to take notes during
the dinner but it would have been a waste of effort for he could
remember clearly every scrap of the information Winslow had given him.
He hurried to his room, gathered up half a dozen books Dan Watkins had
loaned him to study, and then headed for the copyreader's rooming house.
He found Dan, in dressing gown and carpet slippers, enjoying a novel.
"What's up, Tim," asked Dan.
"Need some advice and also brought your books home," replied Tim.
"Carson is going to let me try a daily aviation column to see how it
goes. I've got more material than I can possibly use for the first time.
Just interviewed Arthur Winslow, dean of the air mail flyers, and have
some stuff that will make wonderful copy."
"How much space will you have?"
"Just an even column and I've enough dope for three or four," said Tim
enthusiastically.
"That's going to be a job, then," said Dan, "for you must keep within
the limits of your space. But that means your story will be even the
better--not an extra word or phrase. Here, use my typewriter and get
busy."
Tim welcomed the suggestion and for an hour he worked diligently,
cutting and rewriting as the copyreader suggested. When he had completed
his task he had a column story about Winslow--a column that was fairly
alive with the romance of the air mail and of the flyer who was the
master of all birdmen.
"Carson will like this, you see if he doesn't," was Dan's comment as he
finished reading Tim's work. "Keep this up and it won't be long until
you'll be the aviation editor of the News."
"Do you really think so, Dan?"
"I'm sure of it. Only the other day Carson was talking about you and I
told him how you were going to night school four evenings every week and
that I was suggesting books for you to read. He was well pleased. There
aren't many of the boys on the paper who are working like you to get
ahead."
Tim reached the office early the next morning and placed his copy on
Carson's desk before the managing editor arrived. The directing
editorial genius of the News said nothing about Tim's first story but
after two or three days he stopped beside the flying reporter's desk one
morning.
"The aviation stories you're turning out are good stuff, Tim," he
commented. "If you have a little more than a column some days don't
hesitate to run over your usual amount of space."
From the fact that Carson was willing to give him more space, Tim knew
that his work was finding favor. But he hoped for the day when the
managing editor would make it a permanent feature.
Tim worked every extra minute getting material for his column. He
interviewed all the famous pilots who landed at the field, wrote
sketches of the flyers on the regular air mail runs, and described
flights over the city and the surrounding towns. The latter stunt made a
great hit with the circulation manager, who personally made a trip to
the editorial office to commend Tim. Every town visited and written up
from the air meant the sale of more copies of the News.
With his regular work and his studies, Tim found the task of gathering
and writing the material for the column a real drain on his physical
energies.
"Better take things a little easier," cautioned Dan, but Tim was too
much interested in his work and studies to give up anything and he was
too conscientious to slight either.
When Tim's health started to suffer under the burden, Dan took the
matter in his own hands and went to the managing editor.
"Tim's working too hard," he told Carson. "The boy is too ambitious for
his own good and unless you do something he'll work himself to death.
He's doing his usual work in the office, writing his daily column and
going to night school four times a week. That's more than he can stand,
especially this hot weather."
"I'm glad you called it to my attention," said the managing editor.
"I've been very much pleased over Tim's column and it's made a hit with
the business office. We decided to make a little change last night and
this is a good time to tell Tim about it. Come along."
They walked down the editorial room together until they reached Tim's
desk where the flying reporter, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep,
was working.
"Hold up a minute, Tim," said the managing editor. "I have some news for
you. We're going to discontinue your column."
"But Mr. Carson," protested Tim. Then he stopped abruptly, his tired
eyes welling with tears.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Tim, I shouldn't have said it in that way," Carson
hurried on. "What I meant to tell you is that the column is gone for
good--from now on it will be a regular department of the paper and
you're to have charge of it."