Gray clouds of winter hung over the city as the noon edition of the
_Atkinson News_ roared off the press.
Tim Murphy, famous young flying reporter and aviation editor of the
_News_, pecked away half-heartedly at his typewriter trying to write a
story about a minor automobile accident that had happened a few minutes
before in front of the _News_ building.
The raw, damp weather and the lead-colored sky had a depressing effect
on Tim. He felt earthbound, restless, and he longed to soar through the
clouds in the _Good News_, the trim, fast biplane owned by the paper.
"What are you looking so gloomy about?" asked Ralph Graves, who had been
Tim's flying companion on many an aerial adventure.
"This weather is enough to give anyone a grouch," replied Tim. "Here it
is, almost spring, and we have to get a week of sloppy weather that
spoils all our plans. That job of overhauling the _Good News_ and
installing the new motor will be done today but it won't do us any good.
With weather like this we won't get any flying assignments."
"I know just how you feel," sympathized Ralph, "Ive been out chasing the
fire trucks on a couple of chimney fires and I've slopped through all
the mud and slush I'm going to for one day. Gosh! But I'd like to hop
over a few clouds in the _Good News_."
The telephone on Tim's desk rang and he turned to answer. He was smiling
when he swung back and faced Ralph.
"Dash off your copy," he said. "Carl Hunter, the manager at the airport,
just phoned that the _Good News_ is ready for a test flight. If we cut
lunch this noon we'll have time for a short hop. What say?"
"Don't ask foolish questions," grinned Ralph. He hurried to his
typewriter where his fingers were soon beating a tattoo on flying keys
as he wrote the story of the fires.
Ralph finished his story, turned it in at the copy desk, and was on his
way to rejoin Tim when a deep rumble shook the building.
"Earthquake!" shouted one of the copy boys as he dove under a desk.
The windows rattled in their frames and the entire building shook as the
terrific noise continued. Then a great pall of black smoke could be seen
mounting skyward. The building ceased its trembling, the copy boy
scrambled out from under the desk and the telephones voiced their sharp
cries.
Tim was the first to answer. From his attitude others in the news room
sensed some major disaster. The managing editor, George Carson, human
dynamo of the paper, ran to Tim's desk and leaned close to the receiver.
He could hear the words which were being shouted into the transmitter at
the other end of the line.
The managing editor turned to Ralph.
"Run to the composing room," he cried. "Tell them to stand by for an
extra. The storage tanks on the Midwest Oil Company property west of
town have caught fire and are exploding."
Ralph waited to hear no more, but ran to the composing room where he
gave the managing editor's message to the foreman. Then he hurried back
to the editorial office.
Tim was scribbling a bulletin for the extra with one hand while he
listened to the first report of the explosion.
Five or six men were missing. They might have been caught in the first
blast or perhaps they had escaped and were too excited to report their
safety.
The managing editor took the story as fast as Tim could write it, wrote
a new banner line for the front page, and rushed the copy to the
composing room.
"Who's talking?" he asked.
"One of the mechanics from the airport," said Tim. "The storage tanks
are only a mile and a half from the field and he saw the first one let
go. A man from the oil company is at the field now and they are getting
the story from him."
"Is the _Good News_ in condition to fly?" asked the managing editor.
"Just got word a few minutes ago she was ready to test," replied Tim.
"Is it safe to go up on a picture assignment for photos of those burning
oil tanks?"
"If you'll pay for all the paint I scorch off the plane," said Tim.
"We'll pay for it," cried Carson. "Take Ralph with you and get all the
pictures you can. We'll want them for the city final. And whatever you
do, don't let your motor cut out when you're over those burning tanks."
"If it does you'll have to look for two new reporters," chuckled Ralph.
Tim turned the telephone over to another reporter and they stopped only
long enough to get a camera and make sure that it had a plentiful supply
of plates.
The editorial office was in an uproar. Carson was shouting orders at
everyone who came within hearing distance; reporters were running from
the room, starting for the scene of the explosion; others were hastening
to hospitals where injured might have been taken and one was delving
into the files to compare the present disaster with fires of other
years.
A heavy pall of oily, black smoke blanketed the city and some streets
were so dark the street lights had been turned on.
Tim and Ralph ran to the nearby garage where the cars used by _News_
Reporters were stored. They took the first machine available, a light,
speedy roadster. Tim climbed behind the wheel and they shot out of the
garage. Traffic down town was in a tangled jam that would take an hour
to clear for the rumbling explosions from the oil tanks had alarmed the
entire city. Many people, believing that the city was about to fall on
their heads, had hurried to their cars in an attempt to flee to the open
country. Now they were just as anxious to return to their homes.
By sliding through alleys, Tim managed to get to a fairly clear
boulevard that led to the airport. A light breeze had started to clear
the smoke from the air and Tim stepped on the accelerator. The indicator
on the speedometer climbed steadily--forty, forty-five and fifty miles
an hour.
"Look out," cried Ralph, "Or we'll be picked up for speeding."
"No chance," replied Tim. "All the police are at the fire. We've got to
make time if we want good pictures."
Tim and Ralph were supremely happy as they sped toward the airport. They
were going into the clouds again--into the clouds in quest of the news
and the pictures. Barely a year before the _News_ had purchased an
airplane and Tim had been assigned the duties of flying reporter. Ralph
had been selected to help and Tim had trained his friend as a flyer.
Together they had uncovered some of the biggest stories of the year for
the _News_ and their exploits had become exceedingly popular with the
people of Atkinson.
In their first year of following the sky trails they had flown across
the top of the world to prove that the ice and snow of the Arctic did
not cover a hitherto unknown continent; Tim had flown down into Old
Mexico and secured exclusive photographs of a rebel leader; and together
they had brought about the death of the Sky Hawk, a former German war
ace who had preyed on the air lines of the middle west.
Now they were off on a new adventure and their hearts beat faster as
they neared the airport.
To their right great billows of smoke mounted skyward from the burning
storage tanks and occasionally tongues of flame could be seen as the
fire made some new conquest.
The airport was just beyond the city limits and its administration
building and hangars flanked the boulevard. Tim spun the roadster
through the gate and stopped beside hanger No. 5.
The broad doors of the hangar had been rolled open and the _Good News_,
its nose pointed toward the field, was waiting for them.
The metal propeller was turning slowly as the engine idled. The fuselage
had been painted a brilliant crimson with the wings a contrast in silver
grey.
Carl Hunter, quiet, efficient manager of the field, was waiting for
them.
"How does the new engine sound?" asked Tim.
"Mighty sweet," replied Hunter. "I haven't had her up for I knew you
would want the first flight. However, I gave her a thorough test on the
blocks and she never missed a stroke. Boy, you've got some plane with
that new 250 horsepower radial motor. You'll do 200 miles an hour and
have plenty of power to spare."
They hastened to the plane where Tim and Ralph made a quick but thorough
inspection. The biplane had been overhauled and re-rigged during the
winter with a new, more powerful motor. The _Good News_ would be fifty
miles an hour faster.
The flying reporters climbed into their cockpits. Ralph, who was to
handle the camera, took the forward cockpit and Tim handled the controls
in the rear one.
Tim opened the throttle and listened attentively as he ran the motor up
and down the scale. There was never a second's hesitation.
Hunter came close and shouted in Tim's ear.
"Don't get too close to the fire," he cried. "The heat will raise the
dickens with the air and it will be pretty rocky."
Tim nodded and motioned for the blocks to be cleared away.
The _Good News_ rolled easily out of the hangar, flipped its tail
saucily at the few mechanics left at the field, and roared over the
soggy ground and into the air.
Tim thrilled to the touch of the controls and the _Good News_ answered
even to the slightest movement of the stick.
The new motor settled to its work in a manner that warmed Tim's heart.
He felt that he had reserve power for any emergency as he swung the
biplane around and headed for the burning oil tanks.
Tim put the _Good News_ in a steady climb and they gained altitude
rapidly. At 1,200 feet he levelled off and Ralph got busy with the
camera.
The oil storage lot, a large tract of level land, was dotted with a
dozen large tanks. Five of the tanks had caught fire and exploded, the
force of the explosion knocking off the steel tops. These tops, like
great black pancakes, had been blown clear of the tract. One of them had
hurtled down to crush the roof of the house nearest the fire.
The walls of two of the tanks had given way and Tim and Ralph could see
the firemen fighting desperately to stop the spread of the flames.
Safety trenches had been a part of the protective system at the tank
farm, but some of them had been weakened by the explosion and the
flaming gasoline was finding the vulnerable spots.
Tim swung the _Good News_ over the blazing storage tanks and even 1,200
feet in the air they could feel the heat. The plane danced crazily and
Ralph, who had been leaning far out, clutched the side of the plane and
shook his fist at Tim.
The flying reporter snapped off the throttle and they glided down on a
gentle incline, as the propeller turned slowly.
"Got enough pictures?" yelled Tim.
"Three more plates left," shouted Ralph. "Let's go down where I can get
some close ups. Make a run for the fire at about four hundred feet; then
zoom up just before we get there. That will give us some real pictures."
"Also scorch all the new paint off the ship," protested Tim.
"Carson said he'd pay for a new coat," Ralph reminded him and Tim nodded
and snapped on the switches again. The motor roared into action and they
shot down out of the murky sky.
At four hundred feet Tim pulled back on the stick and the _Good News_
levelled off. They were a mile west of the burning tank farm when he
banked sharply and swung back toward the city.
The clouds of smoke, rolling upward, were streaked with vivid flashes of
flame. Tim chilled as he thought of the fate that would be theirs if
their plane failed to respond to the controls. He forced the thought
from his mind and took a fresh grip on the stick.
Ralph glanced back and smiled. Tim motioned to his own safety belt and
directed Ralph to strap himself into the plane. No telling what might
happen in the next smoky-flame seared seconds.
Tim pushed the _Good News_ into several tight banks while Ralph strapped
himself into the plane. Then they were ready for their picture making
dash.
Ralph trained his camera and glued his eyes to the sight. It would be a
great action picture, awe inspiring in its power, if they could get it.
Tim, one hand on the stick and the other on the throttle, watched his
air speed. It was increasing rapidly. Half a mile from the burning tanks
they were going one hundred and fifty miles an hour. A quarter of a mile
away and their speed had increased to one hundred and seventy-five. Then
there was no more time to check the air speed. They were going fast
enough and Tim knew his motor had plenty of reserve power for any
emergency.
Ralph, in the forward cockpit, was busy with his camera. Two exposures
of the rolling, mass of smoke and flame were made in the split seconds
before Tim threw the _Good News_ into a steep zoom.
The towering pillar of smoke was less than five hundred feet ahead of
their propeller when Tim put the pressure on the stick. The nose shot
skyward and the _Good News_ danced upward along the outer rim of smoke.
Ralph was ready for the final exposure when a terrific explosion and a
wave of rag flame and heat tore the heavens asunder. The _Good News_
leaped upward, bucking like a wild horse. Tim, his eyebrows singed and
lungs burning from the scorching heat, fought the controls.
Up, up, up pitched the _Good News_, tossing wildly on the edge of the
inferno of flame and smoke. The noise of the explosion had deadened
their ears and neither Ralph nor Tim could hear the laboring of the
motor as Tim gave it full throttle.
The new paint on the wings and fuselage curled and darkened in the heat
and for a second Tim thought the gasoline tank might explode.
Then above it all came the sound of a second explosion and the _Good
News_ stood up on its tail. Tim was thankful that they had used their
safety belts for he was almost thrown from the cockpit.
Out of the smoke hurtled a great piece of steel. Tim heard Ralph scream
a warning but he was powerless. The _Good News_ was out of control.
Fascinated by the sight of the great projectile which was approaching
them with terrifying speed, Tim lived an eternity. Actually it might
have been a second, probably it was less.
The _Good News_, falling tail downward, missed the deadly piece of steel
by less than two feet.
They were past one danger only to be confronted with another even more
horrible to contemplate than the one they had just escaped. Ralph, his
eyes burning in his smoke-blackened face, was looking back at Tim,
trusting that the young flyer would be able to pull the _Good News_ out
of the tailspin.
With a last despairing effort Tim crashed his fist against the throttle.
It leaped ahead a good inch. It had jammed in the emergency and he had
not noticed it. More fuel flooded into the laboring cylinders and the
motor, its full power unlashed, lifted them almost vertically into the
sky.
When they were out of danger and in the cool, clean air, Tim brought the
nose of the plane down and they headed for the airport.
The _Good News_ looked to be ready to take first prize at a fire sale.
The entire ship was grimy from the heavy oil smoke and the dope on the
wings and fuselage was curled and cracked from the terrific heat.
Tim nosed down over the airport and idled his motor as they skimmed to a
perfect three point landing and rolled to a stop in front of their
hangar.
Carl Hunter ran to their plane.
"You crazy news hounds," he cried. "I thought you were goners when those
explosions caught you. How did you ever get out alive?"
"We'll thank the new motor for saving our necks," replied Tim. "We were
in trouble, believe me. The throttle stuck and the engine wasn't getting
all the gas. In a moment of desperation I smashed the throttle with my
fist and opened it. A second later and we were climbing to safety."
"Good thing you made me strap myself in," grinned Ralph, "Or you would
have lost your passenger when we took that wild west ride."
"We were mighty lucky to get back," said Tim. "Next time we cover a fire
on an oil tank farm we'll know enough to stay at a safe distance."
"But think of the great action pictures we've got," said Ralph.
"I'm thinking of my own neck right now," replied Tim. "When the second
explosion came and that piece of steel picked us out for a target I just
said good-bye to everything. While we're passing around the thanks for
getting out alive we'll have to include old lady gravity. The _Good
News_ was dropping earthward just fast enough for us to escape."
"We'd better get these pictures to the office so they can use them in
the final," said Ralph.
"You take the camera and the car and go on," said Tim. "I won't be
needed at the office for a while and I want to check over the plane and
see if it suffered any serious damage. Tell Carson he'll have to okay an
order for another coat of paint."
"I'll wait and see how the pictures come out before I tell him,"
chuckled Ralph as he got in the roadster and started for the office.
Tim and Hunter went over the _Good News_ carefully, checking every joint
and strut. Then they gave the motor a thorough test. It was sweet and
true.
"A real plane," was the field manager's comment when they had completed
their inspection. "After a test like the one to-day you can count on it
carrying you through anything short of a hurricane."
"I'm not so sure it wouldn't do that," said Tim.
"We'd better fill up the gasoline tank," he added. "Never can tell when
we may get an assignment that will call for another quick getaway."
They refueled the ship and were rolling it back into the hangar when a
car skidded through the gate. The managing editor and Ralph were in the
machine and from their haste Tim knew that he would soon be in the
clouds again on the trail of another big story.