The Bootlegger Repays Jimmy’s Kindness
Jimmy delivered his papers to the under secretary and got a receipt for
them. He left the train at Altoona, wired the managing editor a brief
statement of his experiences, then registered at a hotel and went to
bed. Utterly worn out by his trying efforts, he slept like a stone and
did not awaken until almost noon the following day. Then he ate some
breakfast, hired a taxi-cab, and drove back to Mingoville. He sought out
the mountaineer who had driven him to Tyrone on the preceding night, and
the two climbed the notch and found the fallen _Travelair_. It was a
complete “washout,” but Jimmy found that his camera was not much harmed,
and he secured his maps, a compass that was still intact, his parachute,
and a few other articles. Then he had the mountaineer drive him back to
Bellefonte, whence he made his way by train to New York, where he
reported at once to the managing editor.
“So you decided to join the Caterpillar Club, did you?” said Mr.
Johnson, speaking jestingly but shaking Jimmy warmly by the hand. “I’m
mighty glad to see you back, _mighty glad_. I had some real shivers when
I read your telegram saying that your plane had fallen and that you had
had to jump for your life. And I was more than amazed to learn that,
despite your accident, you still succeeded in accomplishing your errand.
It must have been a tight squeeze, Jimmy. I want to know how you did
it.”
Jimmy fished out one of his topographic maps. “I fell right here,” he
said, putting his pencil point on the spot that represented the gap
above Mingoville. “It was great luck. Had I been a mile distant in
almost any direction, I could never have made that train at Tyrone.”
“It was a wonderful achievement, Jimmy. I want to hear every particular
of the story.”
Simply Jimmy related what had happened to him, beginning his tale with
the moment when he felt his plane icing up.
“It’s a great story, Jimmy,” was the managing editor’s only comment.
“You should have told me about it in your wire last night. I want you to
tell Handley what you have just told me. It will make a great story for
the _Press_. Of course we must not betray the fact that the under
secretary of war lost some state papers. For the purpose of this tale
you were merely bearing confidential despatches to him from the
_Press_.”
So it happened that Jimmy once more figured in the news columns. He
disliked so much publicity. But he understood that this was a great
story for his particular newspaper to print. The thing that pleased him
most was the fact that he had made good. He had delivered the message to
Garcia. Nor was Jimmy at all displeased when he found at the end of the
week that he had been given a nice bonus for his work.
His own ship was ready for flight once more within the period that Jimmy
had designated as the time allowance for the job. But for some time
there was again a dearth of interesting assignments. Meanwhile winter
was succeeded by early spring, the snow disappeared in the region of New
York, though there was plenty of it left in the far north and would be
for weeks to come. Jimmy had the skis on his plane replaced by wheels,
for everywhere in the territory that he was likely to cover there was
now bare ground.
The first break in this new stretch of uninteresting days came when
Jimmy was sent to the pine barrens of New Jersey, to take photographs of
a great forest fire that was sweeping through the pines. Jimmy had seen
forest fires in Pennsylvania, but nothing like this crown fire that was
roaring through the pine woods in a line twenty-five miles long, laying
waste not only thousands of acres of timber land, but utterly destroying
scores of homes within the forested area.
On another occasion he was sent down the Bay to take photographs of an
incoming steamer from Europe that had effected a daring rescue in
mid-ocean of the crew of a sinking freighter.
But the assignment that gave Jimmy the greatest thrill he had had in a
long time was an order to fly to the eastern end of Lake Ontario once
more, and cover the wreck of a lake steamer. This craft, one of the
first ships to make its way from its winter harborage through the
disintegrating ice of the lake, had been caught in a terrible gale and
dashed on one of the small islands just off Smithville.
Jimmy was atingle with enthusiasm the instant he got word from the
managing editor. It was already well into the evening. Only a flash had
come—the merest hint of the great story that eventually
unfolded—saying that the steamer had gone aground on the island. The
storm had somewhat abated, though it was still blowing hard. But at the
Long Island hangar there was small evidence of any disturbance in the
air.
“Would it be possible for you to get up there to-night?” asked Mr.
Johnson. “Or is it better to wait until morning? If you _could_ reach
the scene to-night, we could almost certainly get something into our
city edition about the wreck. That goes to press at 3:30 in the morning.
But we could hold it, or we could get out an extra. What do you think
about it, Jimmy?”
“We ought to be able to do it, Mr. Johnson. Of course, it depends upon
what the flying is like farther north. But right here the air is quiet
enough. At the very least, I could fly until I was forced down. Then I’d
be just so much nearer the spot, and could doubtless get there quickly
by motor. The only difficulty is the one of landing. There are no beacon
lights to guide me and no illuminated landing fields. A fellow always
runs a chance of 'washing out’ a ship when he lands in the dark.”
“Then you don’t think it advisable to attempt the trip to-night?”
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Johnson. I’m going to make the trip. But I
wanted you to understand the difficulties. I’ve been over the route, and
I can cover it again without difficulty. The night is clear and there is
starlight enough to illuminate things a little. I know a number of
people at Smithville. I’ll wire to the postmaster and ask him to burn a
bucket of gasoline in the field where I landed last winter. I can get
down all right, I’m sure. But the wire facilities are not very good up
there.”
“All right. I’ll get into touch with the Western Union and see if we
can’t get a wire ready for your use. You make whatever arrangements are
necessary and get off as soon as you can. How long should it take you to
reach Smithville?”
“Unless I have to fight a stiff wind, I ought to make it in two hours
and a half. It’s almost nine now. I ought to get there by midnight at
latest. In two hours more I ought to have a story on the wire for you.
We ought to catch the city edition without difficulty.”
“Very well, make your arrangements and get off. Have your mechanic
telephone me the moment you start.”
Jimmy instantly called the Western Union and dictated a telegram to the
postmaster of Smithville, asking him to burn a bucket of gasoline in the
best landing field possible, when Jimmy approached and circled the town.
Unless held up by wind, he said, he should be due in two hours and a
half. Then, without waiting for a reply, Jimmy hopped off as soon as he
could.
Straight up the Hudson flew Jimmy, speeding along at 120 miles an hour,
the pace he knew he must make to land him at Smithville within the
designated time. He had no trouble in following the Hudson to Albany,
nor in going up the Mohawk to Rome. His troubles began after he left
that point and started to follow the railroad to Smithville, for the
wind, which had been freshening ever since he left Albany, was now
blowing half a gale. But it was a quartering wind for Jimmy and did not
delay him nearly so much as a head wind would have done. It did make the
flight very rough and bumpy. But Jimmy wisely flew at a good altitude,
even though the wind was stiffer up high, and in a little more than two
hours and a half was approaching Smithville.
He could make out the tossing expanse of the lake. The lights of
Smithville showed him exactly where the village was, and his memory told
him just where the field should be in which he had once landed. He nosed
his ship downward and started a big swing around the town. Lower and
lower he glided, waiting for the expected flare. He was sure his running
lights must be visible from the ground, for the night was still
perfectly clear, though he was not so certain that the roar of his motor
could be heard. The blustering of the wind might drown out the sound. At
any rate, they would be looking for him, and they would see him. So he
eased his plane earthward, gliding lower and lower, and waiting for the
flare.
Suddenly it came. A burst of flame sprang up, though it was not where
Jimmy had expected to see it at all. It lighted up a wide expanse of
land. The place looked wet to Jimmy, but he could not be sure about
that. At any rate, it undoubtedly was the best landing place possible.
He knew his friends would not pick out any other landing place. So Jimmy
shoved his stick over a little more, shut off his engine, and glided
down. He leveled his ship off, let her lose flying speed, and set her
down. Instantly he knew that something was wrong. Water began to fly.
His wheels gave forth squdgy, wallowing sounds. In a second his plane
bogged down. Over she nosed into the soft ground. His propeller was bent
almost double. His under-carriage seemed to give way. His engine plowed
into the mud. His tail was standing high in air.
Fortunately Jimmy had braced himself at the first sound of splashing
water. He was thrown forward, and though his face was somewhat cut and
he suffered several hard bumps, he was not really injured. Instantly he
cut his switch and shut off the gas. Then he leaped from the plane to
see what had happened. He found he was in the centre of a great stretch
of bog. His plane was hopelessly mired and out of commission for days.
At a distance he saw men with lanterns. He splashed through the swampy
ground toward them. They came hurrying in his direction. Foremost was
the village postmaster.
“What in thunder did you make a flare in a swamp for?” demanded Jimmy,
mad as hops. “My plane is completely out of commission.”
“We did just what you asked us to do,” replied the postmaster, somewhat
taken aback by Jimmy’s fiery greeting.
“What I asked _you_ to do!” said Jimmy. “Why, I asked you to light a
flare in the best landing place available. Is that your idea of a good
landing place for a plane?”
“But in your second telegram you said to put the flare in a swampy place
as you would fly still farther north from here and your ship still wore
skis.”
“My second telegram! My ship still wore skis! I never sent you any
second telegram. I never told you I had skis on my ship.”
“Well, somebody did. Here’s the telegram. It’s signed New York _Morning
Press_.” And the postmaster fished out of his pocket two yellow telegram
blanks and thrust them into Jimmy’s hand.
“Somebody has played another trick on me,” said Jimmy. “But it won’t do
any good. My ship may be disabled, but I am not. There’s still the
telegraph to fall back upon. I can get a message back to New York that
way.”
“But you’ll need your plane to fly out to the wreck.”
“Thunderation!” said Jimmy. “Isn’t there a boat to be had?”
“Yes, but it’s terribly rough. Nobody around here would go out on the
lake in a sea like the one that’s running now.”
“Well, can I get the story of the wreck here?”
“No. Nobody knows a thing about it except that the ship has piled up on
the nearest island. We can see her with our glasses. But that’s all we
know. That’s all we had to send to the newspapers.”
“Isn’t there any boat that can make it out to the island? I’ll pay
anybody well who’ll take me out.”
“The only fellow who would dare it is that bootlegger who held you up on
your former trip here. He stops at nothing. He’s got a boat specially
made for rough weather.”
“Where is he?” asked Jimmy. “Can I get in touch with him?”
“Yes, you can. He’s been in town for several days. The lake has been too
rough even for him. I’ll show you where he hangs out.” And the
postmaster tramped off, with Jimmy at his side and a group of villagers
following behind them.
They found the rum runner. The man jumped up suspiciously as they
entered the house where he was staying. He glanced from the postmaster
to Jimmy and back again. At first he did not know the stranger. But
before the postmaster could say a word he remembered Jimmy’s face.
Instantly he held out his hand.
“Hello, Kid,” he said. “I reckon I know what brings you back here. You
gave me a ride across the lake some time ago and I suspect you want one
in return? Do I win or lose on that guess?”
“You win,” said Jimmy, shaking the fellow’s hand. “I want a ride and I
want it bad.”
“You can get it,” said the rum runner. “I’ve been out studying the lake
for the last half hour. The waves is dyin’ down fast. I’ve got a boat
that’ll make it easy. Once we get in the lee of the island, there won’t
be nothin’ to it—absolutely nothin’.”
“How soon can we start?”
“Right off. Come on.”
The bootlegger’s power boat proved to be a tremendously sturdy craft,
with high prow, a deep cabin roofed over, and the tiniest of cockpits in
the stern, where there was also an engine that appeared to be of great
power. Jimmy and the owner climbed aboard. The latter turned on an
electric light.
“Put this on,” he said, handing Jimmy a lifebelt. Then he drew on
another himself.
He started his motor and let it run quietly a few moments to heat up.
Then he opened the throttle to test it. The engine answered with a roar
as powerful as that of Jimmy’s plane. The ship strained at her hawsers.
“Now, Kid, you go inside the cabin and sit down. You’re likely to get
hurt if you don’t. If it gets too rough for you, just lay right down in
a bunk. Don’t take no chances on breakin’ an arm or somethin’.”
Jimmy obeyed. The rum runner threw off his lines. He opened his
throttle. The ship left her little harbor. In a moment she was tossing
wildly on the waves of the open lake. The owner gave his engine more
gas. The craft forged ahead. Jimmy had never had such a ride. Like a
chip in a whirlpool the little boat was thrown about. Now it leaped high
upward. Now it dropped downward with a suggestiveness that almost made
Jimmy sick. Now it struck a huge wave, that came crashing back over it,
and the impact made the sturdy craft tremble and quiver. But all the
time it bored straight through the sea, its motor roaring, its propeller
whirling wildly as the stern was thrown up out of the water. At times it
plunged headlong down the slope of a great wave, only to go crashing
into the following crest. It shook and shivered. It groaned and creaked.
But not for one instant did the motor falter or its deep-throated roar
subside.
Almost before he knew it, Jimmy found himself in calmer water. The boat
still rose and fell. It still rocked and swayed. But there was a
perceptible difference in its motions. They were less violent. The sea
was not so turbulent. The craft wallowed less in the waves. And the
farther they went the smoother their passage continued to grow.
Jimmy rightly guessed that the boat was in the lee of the island. It
was, in fact, driving into a little cove or bay, well protected, on the
leeward side of the island. When Jimmy looked out and saw land to right
and left of him he was amazed. They had made the trip to the island in
astonishingly little time. Despite wind and wave, the rum runner’s
powerful boat had crossed the three miles of water with great speed. Now
the craft ran swiftly up the little bay and slid to a grating stop at a
little landing at the very end of the cove.
“Come on,” said the rum runner, making his boat fast. “I’ll take you
over to the wreck.”
Rapidly he led the way across the island, which just here was hardly a
mile wide. Then the two made their way out to the end of a long point of
land, on the tip of which lay the stranded vessel. It was driven far up
on the sands. Only a few hundred feet of water separated it from the
shore. But those few hundred feet were frightful to behold. On this
windward side of the island the sea was terrible. Huge waves came
roaring in from the open lake, to crash against the helpless ship and go
thundering completely over it. Jimmy looked at the scene with an awe
that bordered on terror. Never before had he beheld such an exhibition
of the fury of wind and wave.
Near by was a cottage. Lights still shone in the windows.
“The folks in that house ought to be able to tell us something about the
wreck,” shouted Jimmy to his companion. “Let’s go talk to them.”
They walked to the cottage and knocked at the door. It was opened
promptly and they stepped inside. A great fire was blazing in the
hearth. Before it sat a man half dressed. Articles of clothing were
hanging before the blaze. The man seemed distressed.
Jimmy introduced himself to the cottager. The man recalled him at once
as the flier who had brought help from the city during the winter.
“What brings you here now? Is there anything I can do for you?” asked
the islander.
“I came to get the story of this stranded vessel. Perhaps you can tell
me something about it.”
“I can,” said the cottager, “but this man can tell you far more. He is
the mate of the ship. He was swept overboard and was all but drowned
before we got him ashore. He can tell you everything.”
Jimmy sat down and began to talk to him. Reluctantly at first, then
eagerly as he found relief in conversation, the man related his story:
how the ship had put out from port at the first possible moment with a
cargo of freight and a considerable passenger list; how progress had
been incredibly slow because of the heavy ice; how the storm had caught
them only a few miles off shore; how the steamer’s propeller had been
broken by ice; and how she had then drifted helplessly before the wind,
finally to crash on the beach before them, with the loss of many lives,
and the probable loss of many more. For it was impossible to get to the
ship with the sea as it was, and the vessel was breaking up. It was only
a question of hours until it would go to pieces. Of all those washed
overboard—probably a score or more—the mate was the only one who had
reached the shore alive.
For an hour Jimmy talked with the downcast sailor. He plied the man with
a hundred questions. He got every detail of the trip, from the start to
the present moment. And he secured many names of passengers and crew.
Then thanking the sailor and the cottager, he took his leave,
accompanied by his rum-running friend.
“Have you got all the facts you want?” asked the latter.
“I’ve got all I have time to get now. I must put what I have on the
wire. Later I can get more details and in the morning some pictures.”
They hurried to the boat, boarded it, and crossed to the mainland,
running before wind and wave. Their speed amazed Jimmy. They made the
crossing in no time at all. Jimmy rushed to the telegraph office, which
he found open and waiting for him, with an extra operator who had been
ordered on duty especially to forward Jimmy’s story. Jimmy wrote a few
lines and handed them to the operator. Then, with the telegraph key
clicking in his ear, he wrote and wrote, tearing off sheet after sheet
from his pad and handing each sheet to the operator as fast as it was
written. When he laid the last sheet before the operator he glanced at
the clock. It was half past two. Jimmy smiled with happiness. He had
“caught” the city edition.
As Jimmy and his new friend came out of the telegraph office they heard
the hum of a plane overhead. Down came a ship, circling, and settling
cautiously lower. Then it dropped a flare, turned its landing lights on,
and glided safely to earth in a big field. Two men got out of it—the
pilot and a passenger. They hurried over to Jimmy and the rum runner. In
the dark Jimmy did not recognize them.
“Is there any way we can get to the island, where that ship is wrecked?”
demanded one of them. “We’ll pay well to get there.”
Jimmy bristled with anger as he heard the voice. It was Rand’s. Jimmy’s
rum-running friend turned to him. “What about it? Shall I take them
over?”
“Not if you’re a friend of mine,” said Jimmy. “This fellow is my worst
enemy. He has played me no end of dirty tricks, and I think he played me
one this very night.”
“Then I don’t take him,” said the bootlegger. “Let him get to the island
the best way he can.”
They turned away from the newcomers. Rand was swearing furiously. But
Jimmy paid no attention to him and presently was beyond the sound of his
voice. Briefly he told his friend of the difficulties he had had with
Rand. “I’m just as sure as I can be that now I know who sent that second
telegram here that pulled me down in the bog and put my ship out of
commission. I don’t know what I am going to do, for I had expected to
fly out to the ship and get some photographs at sunrise and then rush
them to New York. The local correspondents can finish up the story.”
“Don’t you worry about no pictures,” said the rum runner. “I got my
airplane all fixed up—new motor and everything. She’s right at hand,
and come daybreak we’ll go git them pictures and then start for New
York. I got business down that way and I’ll be glad to make the trip.
You done me a fine service once and I ain’t never goin’ to forget it.”