A BEWILDERING PROPOSITION
There was no marked sign of cordiality in Ned Napier, Alan Hope and Bob
Russell as chairs were brought from the anteroom and the Airship Boys
were asked to seat themselves. It was three o’clock in the morning (the
giant presses below were just starting on the big last edition of the
paper) and the visitors were yet to be given an explanation of why they
had been asked to get out of bed after but two hours asleep, and hurry
by taxicab to the office of the _Herald_. Even their brief rest had been
broken into by reporter Winton’s persistent telephone calls. Not even
the just before dawn coolness of the streets had aroused the boys into
daytime alertness.
“I am obliged to you, gentlemen,” said the managing editor after the
conventional salutations. “I would have come to you myself, but the
matter in hand is so new to me and so important that I am just now
prepared to talk to you intelligently. What I want to discuss with you I
had not heard of at one o’clock. I have been studying it ever since. I
hope you will pardon me.”
Napier—just between boyhood and young manhood—spoke for the visitors.
The slight frown on his face relaxed.
“We have no idea what this business can be,” he responded with a smile,
“but of course it is no foolish errand. If we seem a little stupid
please have patience with us. I’m hardly awake now.”
“Thank you,” responded the editor. Then he paused while he carefully
scanned each member of the party. As if to gain further time in which to
frame his ideas into words, he offered his cigar case. Only Bob Russell
and Mr. Latimer accepted a cigar. In the interval of lighting these, Ned
and Alan adjusted their disheveled clothing. In age, Alan was slightly
older than his chum. Russell had just attained his majority. Each boy
was typically Western. All were in comfortable light clothing and soft
shirts, the former trim and natty enough originally no doubt but now
somewhat sagging in the pockets because of note books, pencils, pens and
folded papers.
Ned wore a new straw hat, Alan had thrown off a cap, and Bob’s hat, on
the table, was a felt, light and soft after the Western style. A fresh
spot of oil on Ned’s light coat seemed to annoy him, probably because of
the formal and spotless attire of their host. The main differences
between the boys were in their faces. Russell had the imperturbable,
frank—even bold stare of the typical reporter, which was only lost when
he smiled. Napier’s, boyish and yet intense, wore at times the soft look
of a dreamer or poet. Hope, always alert and quizzical, had not even
smiled as yet. Alan’s character was well indicated by Ned’s frequent
phrase: “the boy wonder who has to be shown.”
The managing editor’s examination of the three young men did not seem to
make his coming explanation any easier. “They were just three boys,” he
explained later to a friend, “but I knew in a moment they were not
‘kids’ mentally.” While Ned coolly smoothed his hair the editor finally
began.
“I may as well be frank as a preliminary. The _Herald_ is in full
possession of the facts concerning what has taken place this evening.”
Not a boy batted an eye.
“If you don’t mind,” said Ned in the pause that followed, “would you be
a little more explicit?”
“I mean that a _Herald_ reporter watched the _Ocean Flyer_ leave the
Aeroplane Company’s yards to-night and saw it return twenty-five minutes
later. We are advised that it traveled forty miles seaward and returned
safely at a rate of one hundred and eighty miles an hour. We have
reasonably full details of the construction of your new airship and, I
believe, exact accounts of its unique features—the triple tandem planes,
their automatic adjustment, the new ‘moon propellers’ and the enormous
turbine sulphuric ether engines.”
There was a silence following this speech that was dramatic. As if
schooled for such emergencies not one of the three boys looked at the
other. When the silence was broken it was by Ned.
“As you say, your information is reasonably correct.”
Another pause followed.
“I assume,” continued the editor, “that you recognize that these facts
make a good newspaper story, particularly when they are known to one
paper alone.”
The first response to this came from Bob Russell, the reporter. But it
was not spoken. Recrossing his legs, he thrust his hands deep in his
coat pockets and gazed determinedly toward the ceiling.
“And I assume,” spoke out Alan Hope at last, “that you did not call us
here to tell us that.”
“Incidentally,” said the editor at once. “I may add that, despite the
excellence of this story as a piece of news, the _Herald_ is not going
to print it. Here,” he added picking up the bundle of proofs from his
desk, “are the proofs of nearly three columns of matter telling this
story. It is in type and ready for the press. The last edition of the
_Herald_ is now on the street without a word of it.”
The surprise caused by this statement seemed almost as great as that
caused by the editor’s first speech. Still the cautious boys gave no
outward signs of deep concern.
“Perhaps I ought to return your frankness,” said Ned at last after it
had become doubtful who would speak next. “When we entered your office I
suspected just what you have told us. The young man who left it as we
came in, I recognized. He is a skillful reporter. We thought we owned
our new car and its ideas. At least we paid considerable money to
develop them. We also had reasons of our own why the matter was not to
be made public. The _Herald_ has been clever enough to get our story. I
suppose we are helpless.”
The managing editor waved his hand as if this sort of irony was an old
story to him.
“You don’t want the story printed?” he said laconically.
“We do not,” replied Ned in the same tone.
“We are _not_ printing it.”
Ned bowed his head as if to say: “Well, why not?”
“Let me be still franker and ask you: ‘Why do you object to the story
being printed?’”
“Perhaps,” answered Ned, “if I may be equally candid, that is our
business.”
The editor smiled unmoved.
“Are you not curious as to why I suppressed it? Why I did not see fit to
print it?”
Not one of the boys, apparently, had taken this view of the situation.
All, at once, felt a little abashed.
“I think I’ll have to ask your pardon. Of course you had a reason.”
“Purely selfish,” was the quick response of the manager. “Let me ask you
one more question. Your secrecy suggests some particular plan or
purpose. Do you care to tell me what that is?”
“It is a long-concealed secret,” explained Ned after a look at Alan and
Bob. “I don’t see just why we should talk now!”
The head of the _Herald_ nodded as if in entire approval, leaned back in
his chair for a moment and then, much as if it had been under
discussion, remarked:
“At the speed you have secured and with the protected car the _Ocean
Flyer_ carries, why don’t you cross the Atlantic?”
Ned eyed his questioner a moment and then, with a glance at his two
chums, broke out laughing.
“And make good our name?” he asked, apparently glad to get into his
usual vein of joviality.
“And make good your name,” repeated the editor.
“Perhaps we may,” went on Ned impulsively. “Now that you’ve betrayed me
into that confession, whatever you do with your story of our new
machine, I hope you’ll say nothing of this. That is our object.”
“To reassure you,” answered the editor, “I have only to tell you that I
hope your secret will be the _Herald’s_.”
“What do you mean?” broke in Alan.
“You _can_ cross the Atlantic, you _ought_ to cross the Atlantic and I
hope you _will_ cross the Atlantic—for the New York _Herald_.”
“For the _Herald_?” exclaimed Bob. “For a prize?”
The editor nodded his head.
“Not for a prize,” he replied soberly, “but on a news assignment—the
biggest news ‘beat’ ever pulled off by a newspaper.”
The Airship Boys forgot the irritation of their abrupt summons, the
chagrin over their stolen secret and all the languor the late hour had
been working on them. With hurried glances at each other they faced the
managing editor wonderingly. In the silence a book dropped from the
table with a crash. Night city editor Latimer had fallen against it and
stood with bulging eyes and mouth agape. Not until that moment did even
he suspect the plans of his chief.
“A news assignment?” mumbled Ned finally.
“I don’t know how much thought you have given the possibilities before
you,” answered the editor, “but I have thought very hard on the subject
for an hour. As I understand it, your metal airship can maintain a speed
of one hundred and eighty miles an hour for a protracted period. It is,
in a direct great circle course, a little over three thousand miles from
this city to London.”
“Which we could cover in seventeen hours,” boasted Alan.
“Precisely,” went on the editor. “In other words, for our purposes, you
can cross over in twenty-two hours and come back in twelve hours or
less.”
“Twelve hours or less?” exclaimed Mr. Latimer speaking for the first
time.
“Certainly, in a way,” laughed Ned. “There is a difference in time you
know of five hours coming west. We gain that. We’d be in the air
seventeen hours actual time but by the clock not over twelve hours.”
“For instance,” interpolated the managing editor, “if the _Ocean Flyer_
left London at two o’clock in the afternoon and came to New York at the
rate of one hundred and eighty miles an hour it would reach this city in
seventeen hours. Allowing five hours for the difference in time, instead
of reaching here at seven o’clock the next morning it would arrive when
our clock hands were pointing to two o’clock.”
“In the same way,” explained Alan, “we would have to add five hours to
our clock time going east. That is,” he added edging forward in his
enthusiasm, “if we left New York at two o’clock in the afternoon,
instead of reaching London seventeen hours later or at seven in the
morning, the clocks would be striking noon when we got there. Oh, we’ve
figured all that out many times.”
“That being true,” resumed the managing editor, “and this marvelous
annihilation of space and time being at last a possibility, as I
conceive it, I have decided that the _Herald_ ought to assist in
announcing the fact to the world by giving a practical illustration of
what may some day be a commonplace.”
“You mean the _Herald_ wants to share in the glory of our ocean flight
if we make it?” asked Ned, his brows knitted.
“I do,” was the response. “You boys have the airship that can do this
and I think you have the daring to try it. If you do it with no other
purpose than to show that a flight across the Atlantic is a possibility,
you will get for it glory and fame—both empty rewards. Cooperate with
the _Herald_ and I will see that your success brings you not only fame
but substantial pecuniary reward. The _Herald_ is prepared to pay you,
not a _reasonable_ sum but an _extravagant_ reward.”
“What if we are satisfied with fame alone?” asked Ned.
“It will not be less because you act for the _Herald_.”
“What is there in it for your paper?” asked practical Alan.
“Let me finish my proposition,” continued the editor drawing his chair
forward into the half-circle of alert boys. “By the way, the Ocean
_Flyer_ is finished and ready for flight at any time, I take it?”
“Practically so,” answered Alan guardedly.
“This is Thursday, June 17. One week from to-day King George V will be
crowned King of England. It will be a ceremony that will attract
attention throughout the civilized and savage world. As a news story, it
is an event to test the news-gathering ability of the greatest
newspaper. The dramatic repetition, on a modern stage, of feudal forms
and priestly rites, may never again be repeated. The _Herald’s_ best
writers are already in London. Our photographers are now there to
graphically illustrate the unique picture of royal pomp and power. It is
the aim of the _Herald_ on this occasion, as on all others, to present a
better story, a fresher narrative and more perfect pictures of this
event than any other newspaper in the world.”
“Not counting the London _Times_?” suggested Bob as the editor paused.
“Not counting the London _Times_!” repeated the great journalist slowly
and significantly. “And to-night I have decided that we can do this with
the assistance of the Airship Boys and the _Ocean Flyer_.” The speaker
now showed his first enthusiasm. As he gripped the arms of his chair he
continued with precision. “I want the _Ocean Flyer_ to leave London at
two o’clock on Coronation Day, June 22, and bring to the _Herald_ office
in New York the best writers covering the coronation and the photograph
films made of the royal procession and such other pictures of the actual
coronation as our photographers may secure. I want these men and
pictures delivered at the _Herald_ office or its vicinity by two o’clock
the next morning. If you can and will do this you may name your own
price.”
It would have been difficult to tell on whom this astounding proposition
fell with the greatest surprise: the Airship Boys or Mr. Latimer, the
night city editor. The latter’s immediate wonder seemed to turn almost
at once into an envious admiration for the man who could conceive such a
bewildering idea. In this, he was apparently joined by Bob Russell upon
whose face there was a frank look of exhilarating amazement. Alan,
elated but puzzled, turned slowly to Ned. The latter gazed at the author
of the daring conception as if partly hypnotized.
“That is the reason I killed to-night’s story,” continued the editor in
a low voice. “I could not take the chance that another newspaper might
attempt to do the same thing. Only those in this room know what is
possible. We can make this effort in secret. What you planned to do you
_will_ do. What I propose will only add to the glory of your success.”
“It is not easy to give you an answer,” almost whispered Ned at last as
he wetted his lips. “It upsets all our plans and we have had no time to
consider it.”
“Do you want time for that?”
“It’s a tremendous thing to decide in a few minutes.”
“Is it the amount of compensation?” asked the elder man.
“I think that will not decide us.”
“What is it that makes you hesitate?”
“I hardly know. Alan,” said Ned turning to his chum, “you haven’t said
anything.”
But Alan made no reply. Gazing at the floor, he sat as if lost in
thought.
“You could carry these men; two writers and a photographer?” asked the
editor.
“Oh, there’d be no trouble about that; that many and enough persons to
operate the car. I think we could even give the photographer a dark
room,” answered Ned. “What do you say, Bob?”
“I’m on from the start, if you put it up to me,” exclaimed Russell who
had now wholly recovered his equanimity. “We could do it without turning
a hair.”
Every one smiled, while Ned drew his chair closer to Alan’s.
“Let me add another detail,” resumed the editor. “On the day before the
coronation the evening edition of the _Herald_ will print a special
coronation edition—American tributes to the King and Queen. Two sets of
the stereotype matrices of this edition will be made at two o’clock that
day. These are paper and light, as you know. On your eastern flight you
will carry these to the office of a London paper and deliver them at
noon of Coronation Day. With the London evening papers we will issue the
complete New York _Telegram_ of the day before.”
The listening, newly excited boys all arose and stood together. Mr.
Latimer walked to the window and raised the shade. The soft gray light
of a June dawn flooded the room and paled the yellow electric lights. It
was four o’clock. A sleepless night had left its traces on all. The
managing editor was again tearing a paper strip into bits. The night
city editor turned out the light bulbs and, biting at his short
mustache, walked nervously back and forth. Suddenly the editor brushed
the torn paper from his lap, arose and went to the big wall map. The
three boys followed him.
“We had planned to start from St. John’s in Newfoundland,” Ned began in
a tired voice. “The distance from that point to Fastnet Light or Cape
Clear in Ireland is less than seventeen hundred miles. That was our
plan. It seemed to us to be a big thing to undertake.”
The editor did not argue. Turning to the map, his form straightened. A
smile of assurance seemed to blot out the traces of night. With a sweep
of his arm he described a wide curve from New York to London. His smile
deepened. Dropping his other hand on Ned’s shoulder he exclaimed:
“There is your real course. You are next to one of the greatest
achievements ever accomplished by man. Do it or attempt it in good faith
and the _Herald_ stands ready to pay you $50,000.”
The figures were staggering but the three boys were now almost beyond
fresh sensations. While no one spoke, Mr. Latimer threw up a window. A
wave of cool, fresh air that burst into the room seemed to arouse the
bewildered boys more than the editor’s last words. It was day and time
for clearer thought. As the hesitating boys turned to drink in the
refreshing air, on a sudden all was decided. The telepathy of boy
comradeship passed the message without spoken words.
“We don’t want the money unless we do what you ask,” said Ned turning to
face the managing editor, “but we’ll try to do it.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” exclaimed the worn editor. “Say that we meet at
the Knickerbocker at one o’clock for luncheon and then to business. Good
night.”
As the three boys took their departure the editor seated himself at his
desk again and reached for a pad of cable blanks.