Jimmy Saves a Boyhood Friend
Jimmy was almost startled at the managing editor’s announcement. Then he
felt embarrassed. It had never occurred to him that his paper would
print the story of his flight. He had not thought his flight worth
telling about. In fact, he had not thought of anything except getting
back with the news. Had not Handley wired the managing editor about the
perilous trip Jimmy was making, and had not that enterprising individual
gotten into touch with the Airways Weather Bureau and urged its
personnel to do everything possible to insure Jimmy’s safety, the tale
would probably never have been known in the _Press_ office. For Jimmy
would doubtless have walked in and apologized for being delayed. He
would probably have said that he had had engine trouble and had landed
at Ringtown to fix an oil pipe that was leaking. That would have been
just like Jimmy. And no one would have known the difference.
But the managing editor, despite his accustomed gruffness and sharpness,
was at heart the kindest of men. His harsh exterior was merely a mask he
wore. He was fond of Jimmy. He had been truly worried about his flying
reporter. He understood Jimmy well enough to know that the lad would
make every effort humanly possible to get back with the photographs and
the story.
Indeed, that was the real reason he liked Jimmy so much. Loyalty and
enthusiasm counted greatly with the managing editor. And he knew that
Jimmy was one hundred per cent. faithful. So he had taken the matter of
Jimmy’s flight in hand, and had done all he could to help his pilot get
through. By telephone he had been kept informed of the lad’s progress,
and he had even been in conversation with the field worker at Ringtown.
That was how he knew all about the matter. Ordinarily he had little to
say to any one by way of commendation or praise. But this time he forgot
his own rule of “not spoiling good reporters by praising them.” He had
spoken from his heart.
There really wasn’t much danger of the managing editor’s spoiling Jimmy,
or of anybody else’s doing it, for that matter; because Jimmy was so
intent on doing something, on accomplishing something, on getting ahead
and climbing up, that he had little time to think about the things he
had done. What interested Jimmy was the things he _hoped_ to accomplish.
He was always studying how to be a better flier and how to gain more
ability in his new task as a newspaper man.
For a short time he had no assignments that taxed his abilities in
either direction. He took the _Morning Press_ camera man out to take
pictures, on several occasions; he transported photographs himself; and
he did one or two little tasks of reporting. But things moved so slowly
for several days after the flight from Cleveland that time began to hang
heavy on Jimmy’s hands and he was growing restless for a task that
seemed to him worthwhile.
It came, as most newspaper stories come, unexpectedly. Early one evening
an A. P. “flash” was received, saying that a great dam had burst in
northeastern New Hampshire. A town had been partly wiped out by the wall
of water that poured down the narrow valley. Scores were dead or
missing. Hundreds were homeless. It was a disaster of the worst kind.
Managing Editor Johnson saw at once that this was no mere local story.
This was a story of the widest interest. It was almost a “national”
story. The destroyed town was far up in the northern part of the State,
is a rough and rugged region. It would be utterly impossible to get one
of his own men there in time to get a story for the next day’s paper. He
would have to depend upon local correspondents. Fortunately the _Press_
had a correspondent at Berlin, which was not many miles distant from the
wrecked village. Mr. Johnson ordered this correspondent to the scene at
once, and made what arrangements he could with the telegraph company to
expedite the handling of the despatches that might be filed. Then he
called up Jimmy.
“We have just had a flash from the A. P.,” he said, “about a dam that
has burst north of Berlin, New Hampshire, partly wiping out the town of
Northend. It won’t be possible for you to do anything to-night, I
suppose, but I wish you would take off at daybreak and get up there as
quick as you can. The place is in the very peak of the State. It’s the
northernmost town. We will get the general story through the A. P. and I
have sent our Berlin correspondent. But we want a story by a staff
member. Get all the incidents you can—the sort of stuff you and Handley
gathered at Cleveland—and in particular get lots of pictures. We need
the pictures especially. Get back here at the earliest moment you can.”
“All right, Mr. Johnson,” said Jimmy, “but I won’t wait until morning.
I’ll take off at once. I can follow the New York to Boston lighted
airway and stop at Springfield for the night. I know the way well. I
could go all the way, but I don’t know anything about the airports up in
the White Mountains. I might have trouble in landing. So I’ll stay at
Springfield for the night and hop off from there at dawn. That will get
me there early in the morning.”
“Good,” replied the managing editor. “That ought to get you back here by
late afternoon. Good-bye and good luck to you.”
Jimmy hopped off as soon as he could get ready. He was glad to be in the
air again, happy to have a real task ahead of him. To be sure, there was
nothing apparently difficult about this job. There was plenty of time,
and the work ought to be easy. But Jimmy already knew enough about
newspaper work to understand that one can never tell what will develop
in any story. Before he got through with it, this assignment might bring
him some thrilling experiences. At any rate, here was another chance to
make good. This time he was wholly on his own.
Furthermore, the night was perfect. In flying language it was a “C. A.
V. U.” night—a night with ceiling and visibility unlimited. Not a cloud
flecked the sky. The deep blue inverted bowl of the heavens seemed
immeasurable. Myriads of stars hung in the firmament. So clear was the
atmosphere that they made the night luminous. Indeed, the stars alone
would have lighted the earth. But a glowing young moon added its
brilliant beams, making the night almost like day. It was an evening to
gladden a pilot’s heart.
It did gladden Jimmy’s. He felt so gay and frolicsome that he could
hardly refrain from doing a few barrel rolls, or looping the loop, or in
some other way giving expression to his mood. But when he remembered
that he was a fully accredited member of the staff of a great newspaper,
and saw that it would not be seemly for a real reporter to be doing
somersaults like a child, he restrained himself and flew along soberly
enough. Yet his heart was singing gaily.
It was little more than nine o’clock when Jimmy hopped off from the Long
Island airport. He had only a trifle more than 100 miles to go. He could
make it easily in an hour, and in much less time if he chose to do so.
But there was no call for haste, and Jimmy didn’t want to get to
Springfield too soon. He was enjoying the night and the ride altogether
too much. So he flew along at a lazy gait.
He had crossed the upper part of New York City, so that he could fly
over the East River rather than the Sound. And he had picked up the line
of beacons that marks the airway from Newark to Boston. Ahead of him he
could see revolving beacon after beacon, at ten-mile intervals, as one
sees street lamps stretching along a city boulevard. The way was as
evident as Broadway at noon. But on a night like this Jimmy didn’t need
any lights on earth to guide him. The beacon lights in the heavens would
have guided him anywhere.
It seemed to him that he reached Hartford, the capital city of
Connecticut, in no time. Below him he could see the lights of the city,
stretching in long rows for miles, like orchards of lights. Ever so
plainly he could see the familiar landing field, where the pilots stop
to pick up mail. It was all aglow with its encircling white boundary
lights, its green lights that show the descending pilot the best way of
approach, its red markers on top of buildings and telephone poles, to
tell the pilot where danger lurks aloft, and its clustered lights and
beacons at the hangar. Jimmy had been there often and knew the place
well.
From Hartford to Springfield was such a mere hop that Jimmy didn’t want
to stop when he reached the latter city. If he could not play, at least
he could express his feelings by extending this wonderful flight a
trifle. He wondered where he should go. Then he thought of an old
friend—a lad he had not seen for a long time—another member of the
Wireless Patrol—Carl Dexter.
Jimmy had visited him once, after Carl moved away from Pennsylvania. He
knew where Carl’s home was. It was in the town of Wilbraham, in
Massachusetts, only a few miles from Springfield. Of course, Jimmy had
no hope of seeing Carl, but he thought he would fly over the lad’s home
and take a look at the region. He liked it greatly, and it held pleasant
memories for him. If he could not see Carl he could at least drop him a
note, saying that he had passed in the night. Perhaps Carl might even
see his plane and remember about the incident. He would circle around
the place and perhaps the family might notice his plane. So, instead of
landing at Springfield, Jimmy remained in the air.
He flew lazily over the city, to take a look at it by moonlight. He
could see everything plainly. There was the peaceful Connecticut River,
asleep under the rays of the moon, and the brightly lighted memorial
bridge that crossed it. At a distance rose the high tower he had had in
mind as a guiding light, with its great lamp glowing aloft. And only a
few miles distant, shining almost level with his eyes, was the flashing
beacon on Mt. Tom. It was all familiar to Jimmy. He was glad to see it
again.
When he had flown over the city, he banked sharply to the right and
turned to the east, trying to pick out the clustered lights of the
village of Wilbraham, which was less than nine miles distant. In five
minutes he was over the place. Just beyond, he could plainly see the
bulk of Springfield Mountain. It lay dead ahead of him. At the foot of
it he saw a long line of lights that marked the country highway. Here
and there shone the lamps of snug little homes. On the slope of the
mountain scattered lights betrayed the presence of other country
dwellings. If he kept straight on, Jimmy would have to fly right over
the mountain. But just now he had no intention whatever of attempting to
fly over the mountain. He kicked his rudder and shoved his stick over
until he was flying parallel with the ridge. Then cautiously he began to
descend. He was trying to find the house in which his friend lived. It
was on the slope of the mountain, perhaps a mile or two from the
village. Jimmy recalled that fact distinctly.
He dropped down as low as he dared. He was within four hundred feet of
the ground. He could see every feature of the landscape sharply in the
bright moonlight. But it was a little difficult to pick out one
particular house, when he had visited the neighborhood only once and had
never seen the region from the air. So he had to swing about in a great
circle. That took him a little closer to the mountain than he had
intended to fly. But the air was calm and he did not anticipate any
danger.
Now, as he circled close to the slope of the hill, he saw, here and
there, little homes tucked away in little farms on the wooded side of
the mountain. The moonlight glistening on the dewy roofs made them shine
out startlingly.
But suddenly he saw something that made him catch his breath. From a
window of one of these hillside homes flames were licking upward. At
first Jimmy doubted his own eyes. But a second glance told him he was
not mistaken. The flames grew swiftly in intensity, and leaping tongues
of fire were soon shooting from several windows. Even from his position
high in the air Jimmy could see that the fire was in the first floor of
the building. The flames were now lighting the place up brightly.
Jimmy came down a little lower and circled above the house. Nowhere
could he see a sign of life. He glanced at his clock. It was almost
ten-thirty. “All abed and sound asleep,” muttered Jimmy. “They’ll all be
roasted sure if some one doesn’t waken them.”
He circled lower. Nowhere could he see a soul. Yet the place had the
appearance of being inhabited. Close by, in the barnyard, Jimmy saw
cattle. Then he _knew_ the place was occupied. Now he saw a dog running
about excitedly. Meantime, the flames grew brighter and brighter. The
first floor windows were fairly belching smoke and flames.
Something must be done to save the family so sound asleep in this
isolated home. For a second Jimmy glanced about to see if there was a
field handy where he could land. It was some distance to the nearest
one. Whatever was to be done must be done instantly. There was no time
to hunt out a landing place.
Without a moment’s hesitation Jimmy circled back toward the house. He
shoved his stick over and nosed his plane downward. Then he gave her the
gun. The ship shot earthward like a meteor. She gained tremendous speed.
Jimmy flew her straight at the blazing house. When he was so close it
seemed as though he could not possibly avoid crashing into the
structure, he pulled back on his stick and zoomed up over the housetop,
his engine beating with a thunderous roar.
Swiftly he circled and bore back toward the doomed habitation. Again he
dived at it, like a hawk after a pigeon, and again he zoomed up over the
housetop. His engine, racing at full speed, set the mountain to echoing
with mighty reverberations. The dog, the poultry, everything that could
make a noise was adding to the uproar, so terrified were they.
Now Jimmy came close to the house and on level keel circled as close to
it as he could. All the while his engine was thundering at high speed.
Round and round he circled, watching the place closely, hoping that he
would accomplish his purpose before it was too late.
At last he saw a head poked from a window. Another followed. The family
was at last awake. Jimmy drew a breath of relief and instantly lifted
his plane to a higher altitude. He had gotten dangerously close to the
tree tops.
There was nothing more he could do in his plane. He wanted to help these
unfortunate folks. Perhaps the barn and the live stock could be saved,
even if the dwelling was doomed. But Jimmy could give no assistance in a
plane. He must get to the ground.
He flew out toward the open farm land. There were fields everywhere.
Most of them were too little for his purpose. But not far away he saw a
field that seemed to stretch for hundreds of yards along the roadway,
which here parallels the mountain. Jimmy could see it plainly in the
moonlight. It looked smooth and safe. Jimmy judged it was a mowing, or
hayfield. He swooped toward it. At the far end of the field he could
dimly discern on a little ridge of land a great barn with a huge silo. A
low white dwelling rose between it and the road. The sight reassured
him. The field _must_ be a smooth mowing. He felt certain now that he
could land in safety. He circled, so as to approach the field again from
the lower end, dropped a flare, switched on his landing lights, and came
down sharply over the trees that lined the end of the field. He could
see well. He noticed that the field sloped upward slightly toward the
distant house and barn. Bringing his plane down almost to the earth, he
straightened her out, and just as his wheels were about to touch the
ground lifted her nose a trifle. A second later he set her down
perfectly, shut off his gas, and let the ship roll up the little slope
to a standstill.
Jimmy was out of the ship and out of his parachute like a flash. But
already near-by dwellers were collecting around his plane.
“There’s a house on fire on the mountain,” cried Jimmy. “Everybody in it
was sound asleep until I woke them a moment ago. They need help. They
may be burning to death. Come on. Who knows the way?”
“This way,” shouted a lad who had just come up. “Follow me.”
The entire group raced after him, as he ran down the highway, then
turned into a wood road that led directly up the slope of the mountain.
Now it was plain enough that something was burning. Through the trees
shone a red glare, and the sky above was rosy with the flames. Showers
of sparks could be seen shooting skyward. The wood road appeared to lead
directly toward the burning house, which was located at no great
distance from the main highway.
Up the road they raced as fast as they could travel. The entire
countryside seemed to be lighted by the fire. In no time they reached
the burning building. The first floor was a mass of flames, and the fire
was rapidly eating its way to the roof. The owner had escaped, with his
wife and two children; but a grown lad, who slept on the third floor,
was trapped and could be seen leaning from an attic window. The father
was trying to rescue him.
He had gotten a ladder, but it was many feet too short. There was no
apparent way to reach the lad. The father was part way up the ladder. He
was calling to the boy to jump into his arms.
“Wait!” cried Jimmy, as he rushed up. “Don’t do that. You’ll both be
hurt. There must be some other way.” His mind was working fast. An idea
came to him. “Have you a rope?” he demanded.
“Sure. A long hay rope.”
“Let me have it quick,” said Jimmy. “We can save him with that.”
The rope was fetched. From his pocket Jimmy took a ball of twine he had
been using back at his hangar. The twine was thin but strong. He picked
up a long, thin stone, tied one end of the twine to it, called to the
lad in the window to catch it, and threw the stone up to him. The first
attempt failed. Jimmy threw the stone up again and the lad caught it.
Jimmy tied the twine to the hay rope. Fearful lest the heavy rope break
the twine, he mounted the ladder almost to its topmost rung, gathered up
a great length of the rope to take the weight from the twine, and held
the rope up toward the lad above him.
“Pull it up carefully, but hurry,” he said. “It’s hot on this ladder.”
Quickly the lad hauled up the twine, then carefully raised the rope
until he could clutch the end of it. A cry of relief went up from the
watching crowd as he grasped the rope. The lad disappeared within the
attic, dragging the rope behind him. In a moment he reappeared at the
window, slid out over the sill, and on down to the ladder. He had
fastened the rope within the attic. Jimmy tarried on the ladder until
the lad’s feet were firmly planted on a rung. Then he scrambled to
earth, quickly followed by the lad he had rescued.
Once they were on the ground, the lad turned to Jimmy and held out his
hand. Both boys gave a cry of astonishment. The lad who had just slid
down the rope was Carl Dexter, Jimmy’s old friend in the Wireless
Patrol. They grasped hands eagerly and greeted one another in a manner
that astonished the crowd.
“Carl!” cried Jimmy. “I had no idea that was you. The light was so
flickering and uncertain, and your hair is rumpled and I just didn’t
recognize you. I didn’t know your father, either, but that is not
strange. He has grown a beard since I saw him. I suppose I have grown so
in the years since we met that he didn’t know me either. I’m awfully
glad to see you. It has been more than two years since we met.”
“No more than I am to see you, Jimmy. But it’s terrible to see you under
these circumstances. How did you get here? What brought you here?”
“I’ll tell you all about that later,” said Jimmy. “We’ve got to try to
save the barn just now. The house will go sure.”
They ran to the endangered structure and found most of the neighbors
battling hard to protect it. A bucket brigade had been formed. Water was
being thrown on roof and wall. The dwelling was absolutely doomed. In
the end, after a hard battle, the firemen succeeded in saving the barn,
some other outbuildings, and all the stock and implements.
When a lull came in the fire fighting, Jimmy and his old friend drew off
to one side, and Jimmy began to tell Carl how he happened to be flying
in the neighborhood and how he discovered the fire. Suddenly he stopped
talking and a strange look came into his face. He seemed to be debating
something in his mind.
“Carl,” he said, “I’m in a queer position. I have no business to be here
at all. I ought to be in Springfield. My managing editor thinks I am
there. Gee! He might even have been trying to get me. He may have some
orders for me. I never thought of that. I could slip right back there
and maybe he’d never know the difference. But here’s a story. It’s a
good story, even if I did have a part in it. The _Press_ ought to have
it. Maybe we can scoop the other New York papers on it. I’m going to
shoot it in as quick as I can, no matter what the Old Man says about my
taking too much rope. He can fire me if he wants to. But I’m not going
to see the _Press_ beaten on its own story. Gee! He’d fire me for that,
sure. How can I get to a telegraph office quickest?”
“In a motor car, I should think. Thank heaven the barn didn’t burn. Our
car is in it. I’ll pull on some trousers and——By Jove! I don’t own any
trousers. They are all burned up. I’ll go as I am. And I’ll get you to
the telegraph office as fast as gasoline will take us.”
He did. Jimmy ran into the office and began to write. He handed the
sheets to the operator as fast as they were written, with the injunction
to rush the stuff. The operator ticked off the story as Jimmy wrote.
Because he was full of the matter, and because he could see so vividly
in his mind the scene he was describing, Jimmy once more wrote a
gripping story. He told in simple words how the pilot of the _Morning
Press_ plane, flying over Wilbraham, had noticed flames issuing from a
hillside home; how the pilot had awakened the sleeping inmates by diving
at the house with roaring motor; how later the pilot and a farm boy had
saved the life of a lad trapped in the third floor of the burning
building; and how this rescued youth had proved to be a lifelong friend
of the pilot.
“Gee,” said Jimmy, when he had finished the story, “I slipped up there.
I forgot to get the name of that farm boy. I’ll let it go now, but I’ll
be more careful next time.”
Then he wrote another message. It was to the managing editor.
At once the managing editor got into touch with him by telephone.
“We have further news about the New Hampshire flood,” he said. “It’s
even bigger than I thought. I’m sorry I didn’t send another man with
you.”
“I’ve got a friend here,” answered Jimmy, “who could help me if you are
willing. It’s the lad we just saved from the fire. He’s an old friend. I
can make good use of him. Shall I take him?”
“Get anybody you can who can help you,” was the answer.
Jimmy called out to Carl: “Could you go on up to New Hampshire with me
and help me cover a flood story?”
“If they can spare me at home, I’ll go gladly if it will help you any.”
Jimmy turned back to the telephone. “I think it is all right, Mr.
Johnson,” he said.
“Very well. Make all the speed you can. This is a big story and all the
papers will be after it hot. Use the telegraph or the telephone if you
break down. Make sure that we get the story and get it in plenty of
time. And don’t forget that we want good pictures. They are more
important than the story. We’ll get a story from the A. P., anyway. The
telegraph editor tells me you just sent in a rattling good story about a
fire. Keep it up. Get us an even better one about the flood. Good-bye.”