THE AIRSHIP BOYS MAKE THEIR APPEARANCE
To be ordered to the office of the managing editor in this summary
manner at half-past two o’clock in the morning was enough to set an
older reporter than Buck Stewart guessing—Buck because his given name
was Buckingham. Buck’s first thought was that he would now be asked to
explain why he had persisted in expanding a column story into twice that
space. Somewhat to his gratification Mr. Latimer escorted him to the
office of the head of the paper.
The young reporter had never even seen his distantly removed superior.
He had heard that the august editor looked like a preacher. He knew that
the “boss” was one of the greatest journalists in the world. Then,
instead of speculating on the cause for his summons, he began to wonder
how the “M. E.” happened to be in his office at that late hour. The real
reason was that the editor had entertained friends at the theatre and
lingered long at the supper after. But in Buck’s mind, it could only be
because the books on “How to be a Journalist” all said the real
newspaper man is always at the right place in a news crisis.
Without a question to his guide, the young newspaper man deferentially
followed Mr. Latimer down the long, half-lit hall, through the ground
glass door into the anteroom where, in the day time, a colored Cerebus
sat in state, and thence into the not over-large room of the director of
the great paper. The managing editor, in evening clothes and a crumpled
shirt, was slowly exhaling the smoke of a cigar while he examined a
large wall map of America and Europe—tracing with a long, white finger a
curved red line that marked some steamer course. On the approach of Mr.
Latimer and Stewart, the editor turned, motioned Buck to a chair and
seated himself in the one at his own desk. There was no introduction.
The night city editor took a leaning position against a big table in
silence.
“This is Mr. Stewart, I believe,” the managing editor began with a smile
as he leaned forward and nervously tore a strip of paper into bits. The
smile rather increased Buck’s alarm. He was sure he was in for nothing
but criticism and the smile made him fearful that this was to come in
ironical words.
“Yes, sir.”
“You discovered this new aeroplane—wrote the story about it?”
“Mr. Latimer sent me out on it. I tried to write a story but I guess—”
“At least you know all about it?”
“I think so. Yes, sir. There are some things I couldn’t learn, but I
found out considerable.”
“And it was made by the young men they call the Airship Boys?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you think any one else knows what took place to-night?”
“I’m sure no one does.”
“Or the details of the new airship; the nature of it and what it can
do?”
“They seem to be trying to conceal everything. I think no outsiders knew
anything about it.”
“And this machine can travel at the rate of one hundred and eighty miles
an hour?”
“It did it to-night and kept it up for twenty-five minutes.”
Buck’s questioner leaned back in his chair and gave Mr. Latimer a
peculiar look. He seemed about to speak to his assistant but turned
toward young Stewart again, took a long, reflective puff on his cigar
and continued:
“Have you any reason to believe this machine could cross the Atlantic?”
“I think it could. I believe its makers think so. They call it the
‘_Ocean Flyer_.’”
What had been a smile on the editor’s face turned into straight, set
lips. Again he turned to Mr. Latimer.
“These boys are somewhere in the city you say?”
“Newark says so,” was the night city editor’s prompt response as he slid
from the table and took a step toward the desk. “Nathan says they came
in from Newark on the midnight express. I’ve got a man out after them
now.”
“Haven’t heard from him?”
Mr. Latimer stepped to his superior’s desk and took up the telephone.
“See if Winton is back yet,” he asked sharply.
“Mr. Winton called a few minutes ago,” was the instant response from one
of the switchboard operators. “He says them parties is at the Breslin
but he ain’t seen ’em yet. He wants as you shall call the Breslin what
he shall do.”
Mr. Latimer turned to the head editor, the telephone yet in his hand:
“Yes, sir; they are at the Breslin. Our man hasn’t seen them. They’ve
probably turned him down.”
The managing editor thought a moment, in which interval of silence he
relit his cigar and then nodded an approval.
“That’s all,” answered the night city editor to the operator, “no
message now.” And he replaced the receiver. Mr. Latimer’s attitude
seemed to indicate that he knew something important was about to happen.
Buck, himself—only temporarily relieved that the storm had not yet
broken on him—also cudgeled his brain to account for his interrogation.
“You’ve stopped the story?” continued the managing editor at last.
“Yes, sir,” answered Mr. Latimer ruefully, “although most of it is in
type. It was a beat.”
“I understand,” said the editor instantly and in a consoling tone.
“Perhaps we can get a bigger beat.” He began tearing another bit of
paper. Then throwing the pieces suddenly from him, he sat upright,
grasped the arms of his chair and said to Latimer:
“I must see these boys to-night—at once if possible. Can you bring them
to me? To this office?”
“Certainly,” replied the night city editor without a falter or a doubt
in his voice. “I’ll go myself.”
“Get them if you can; it is important.”
Without a question Mr. Latimer hastened doorward. Stewart arose to
follow him. The managing editor waved Buck to his seat again.
“I want you to tell me the story you wrote to-night: all you know about
this new airship.”
Buck now made up his mind that, whatever might be the meaning of the
managing editor’s sudden interest in his aeroplane story, it was not
directed toward him personally either in the way of commendation or
criticism. Something had developed the possibility of a bigger “beat,”
the manager had suggested. As the reporter received the order to tell
the whole story he reseated himself. He also had a new thought: “This
means something good,” he said to himself, “and while I’m talking I’m
not goin’ to forget Buck Stewart. If something is to come out of this I
want to be in on it.”
Before he could begin his story his chief executive resumed, suddenly:
“These Airship Boys—did you see them?”
“No,” replied the reporter. “I was totin’ lumber in the yards—”
“You are from the south?” interrupted his listener.
“Kentucky,” answered Buck.
“How long have you been with the _Herald_?”
“Six months.”
“You are about twenty-one years old?”
“Twenty in the fall.”
“How did you get your job?”
“I worked on the Paducah _News-Democrat_ until I had money enough to get
to New York. Then I came here and asked for work. They put me on.”
“Right away?” went on the managing editor with an incredulous smile.
“No, not at once. I think it was after two weeks.” Buck became a little
embarrassed and shifted his position. “At first the city editor told me
there wasn’t any chance; that he couldn’t even try me out until I’d had
some city experience. I told him news was news, whether it was in the
‘tenderloin’ or in Paducah. But he didn’t seem to hear me. Then I found
out when the city editor came to work and I showed up at the same time
each day for two weeks. He was pleasant enough for a few days. Then he
began to look bored. At last he used to scowl at me.”
“Then what?” laughed the editor softly.
“Well, one day he seemed more out of sorts. He looked as if he had a
notion to kick me. Then he groaned and said ‘report to Mr. Latimer
to-night and keep out of my sight.’ I haven’t seen him but two or three
times since.”
The editor seemed to chuckle but Buck could not be sure. Then the
manager returned to the Airship Boys after a few moments of silence.
“What do you know about these young men, the Airship Boys?”
“Only what I’ve read,” was Buck’s answer. “They’ve been in the papers
for several years. They are from Chicago.” Then he recalled Winton’s
assignment—the sketch this reporter had made of the young aviators to be
used in the now abandoned story. “There’s a story of them in proof by
this time, I think,” he added. “Mr. Winton wrote it to use in the
morning.”
“Get it for me, if you will,” said the editor. “And the proof of any
other matter on this story that has been set.”
In a few minutes Buck was back with a handful of Mr. Latimer’s proofs.
As he passed through the big local room he noted that it was two
thirty-five o’clock. The managing editor was lighting a fresh cigar when
he returned and was again on his feet intently examining the big wall
map, the principal part of which seemed to be the Atlantic Ocean.
“Ever been abroad, Mr.—Mr.—?” was the editor’s rather irrelevant
greeting to Buck as he reentered the room.
“Yes, sir, to England,” was the reporter’s response. Buck did not bother
about reminding the great journalist that his name was Stewart. His
questioner, whose head was twisted sideways as if he were trying to make
out the printed words or figures on the scores of steamer routes, looked
up in surprise. “My grandfather lives in London. I’ve been there twice
with my mother. When I was fifteen I rode a wheel from Liverpool to
London. We spent a summer there.”
The managing editor looked Buck over as if making an inventory of him.
“Is your story in proof?” he asked at last as he returned to his desk
and picked up some of the proofs.
Buck, standing by the editor’s side, began nervously to look over the
galley slips. Some were yet damp. The more experienced eyes of the older
man detected Winton’s story of the Airship Boys. Extracting it from the
bundle he passed the other slips back to the reporter and gave his own
attention to Winton’s “insert.”
“The Airship Boys,” the story began, “now known everywhere in America,
are not unknown in Europe. Ned Napier and Alan Hope, who first attracted
attention under this pseudonym, are Chicago products. Robert Russell,
who, from constant association with Napier and Hope, is now generally
reckoned as the third of the trio who have gained fame under that title,
is the oldest of the three and hails from Kansas City, where for some
time he was a reporter on the _Comet_.
“The greatest achievement of Napier, Hope and Russell was the creation,
elaboration and institution of a system of aerial navigation which
resulted in the present Chicago-New York air line.”
“I see that one of these young men, Russell, is a newspaper man,”
commented the editor, lifting his tortoise-shell nose glasses
inquiringly.
“Yes, sir,” answered Buck, “and a good one, I guess. Winton knows him.
Met him in New York last summer when Russell and Napier and Hope were
here floating the New York-Chicago airship line—the Universal
Transportation Company. You remember the ‘Flying Cow’ mystery, sir?”
“And these are the youngsters?” exclaimed the editor with new
illumination, replacing his glasses and resuming his reading.
“Napier,” Winton’s account continued, “is the son of a Chicago
lawyer—now dead—who was an amateur aeronaut. The father became
interested in dirigible balloons about four years ago and contracted to
make one for an amusement park. The father dying before the completion
of the contract, his son Ned assumed it, finished the craft and then
undertook to operate the balloon. Through a series of adventures he
attracted the public eye and his career began.
“Early in the following year Napier and a chum, Alan Hope—a lad of
mathematical turn—were employed by an ex-army officer, Major Baldwin
Honeywell, to construct a large balloon—one capable of a five-day
flight—for the purpose of locating a hidden Aztec temple in Navajo land
in Arizona. In this adventure Robert Russell, then representing the
Kansas City _Comet_, joined the boys and when the details of this highly
interesting, novel and profitable project reached the public the title
of the ‘Airship Boys’ was coined by the newspapers.
“It was in this flight over the mountains and desert that liquefied
hydrogen was used for inflation purposes, probably for the first time.
Although the big balloon used at this time was left in the mountains it
was rescued later by a second expedition organized in the same year. At
this time young Napier and Hope encountered one of their most marvelous
adventures. While they were attempting to ascend from one of the mesas
of Navajo land, their balloon was caught in an aerial maelstrom, swept
westward to the Pacific Ocean and finally wrecked on a water-logged
derelict lumber vessel. On this, within ten days, the young aeronauts
turned aviators by constructing an aeroplane out of the remnants of the
car of their dirigible balloon.”
Buck had what proofs he could find of his story and stood waiting but
the managing editor leaned a little further toward his desk light and
continued to read.
“Escaping from the abandoned wreck, the improvised aeroplane made a
three hundred mile flight to land and came down in the highlands of
Mexico where the daring aviators added further flavor to their novel
experiences by rescuing a blind man, long a prisoner among an unknown
tribe of Mexican Indians, and preventing his immolation as a human
sacrifice on the summit of a prehistoric pyramid.”
The absorbed editor paused and, without lowering the slip he was
reading, glanced at Buck over the top of his glasses.
“Are you familiar with the story of how these boys made an aeroplane on
a wrecked vessel in the Pacific?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” responded Stewart. “It has been told in the newspapers.
There are several books about it and other adventures of these young
men.”
“I wish,” continued the editor, “if you know the titles of them, that
you would step into some book shop to-morrow and have all of them sent
to me.” Then he resumed his reading.
“In the summer of the following year the Airship Boys, including young
Russell, the reporter, sailed from San Francisco on a novel Arctic trip.
One of the backers of this expedition was Major Honeywell and another
was J. W. Osborne, of Boston, a millionaire manufacturer interested in
copper mines in North British America. For traveling over the ice a
dirigible balloon was carried along. The car of this was a practical
aeroplane and ice yacht. This little-heralded dash to the north is said
to have reached to within a few miles of the pole. The return was made
by way of northern British America where the aeroplane part of the
aeronautic outfit was used to discover a marvelous copper mine on an
uncharted island in Coronation Gulf.
“Out of their interest in this mine and the profits of their previous
flights, the Airship Boys were able to take up the study of scientific
aeronautics. This resulted in several marvelous inventions, including
the ‘rocket’ engine of ‘Flying Cow’ fame and the subsequent organization
last summer of the Universal Transportation Company which was
underwritten by J. P. Morgan & Co. Little has been heard of the
celebrated aviators since then. That they have not been idle the above
story attests.”
When the managing editor finished the galley proof of this brief account
of Ned Napier and his chums, he removed his glasses, lighted his cigar
once more, reached out his hand for Buck’s story and then laid it on his
desk.
“Tell it to me yourself, briefly,” was his order.
“If you ever read what I wrote,” began Stewart attempting to conceal
some chagrin, “the ‘lead’ isn’t mine. I guess it was rotten. Some one
rewrote it.”
The listener only nodded his head and waited, smoking slowly and
swinging his glasses expectantly. Thereupon Buck began and, much better
than he had written it, told the story of the new aeroplane: how he had
secured work in the plant, ingratiated himself into the confidence of
the workmen, used his eyes and ears and finally witnessed the night
ascent. In the midst of his rapid narrative the telephone rang. The
listening man responded, smiled, replied in approval and then returned
to the graphic narrative. Toward the close of the description the editor
arose. As Buck finished, the editor laid a hand on his shoulder in
silence. Then, as if recalling the written story, he stepped to his
desk, picked up the proof and gave it swift inspection. Without reading
it all he turned to the young reporter.
“I don’t know what your wages are, my boy,” he said kindly, “but
whatever they are, they are now doubled. It is probably the last time
any of your copy will have to be rewritten. I am glad you are on the
_Herald_. Good night.” He held out his hand. “Don’t think your unprinted
story is wasted. I may want to see you to-morrow.”
As Buck, his cheeks aflame, shook hands there was the sound of footsteps
in the next room.
“Thank you, sir,” Buck began. But he found no time to say more. The door
was thrown open and Mr. Latimer and three young men entered the office.
The sudden invasion threw the retiring reporter into the background. And
yet, before he closed the door on himself, he paused a moment to observe
the managing editor hastening toward his visitors.
“Mr. Napier, Mr. Hope and Mr. Russell,” announced Mr. Latimer in a tone
that was not without a little pride.
“Clear the stage for the real stars—the Airship Boys,” said Buck to
himself and closing the door, he hurried down the hall.