The managing editor of the New York _Herald_ received the engraved
visiting cards of Alan Hope and Ned Napier with mingled pleasure and
surprise.
“The Airship Boys! Send them right in,” said he to the young woman who
had announced them from the outer office. Then the great newspaper man
turned with an apologetic smile to the gentleman who still stood, hat
in hand, beside his desk, as he had been about to leave just before the
boys’ cards were brought in.
“Please excuse me, Mr. Geisthorn, for seeming to hurry you away in this
manner, but I believe our little interview was about terminated anyway.”
“Yes, it is so,” replied the other, speaking with a strong German
accent. “It is not for me yet to take too much of your precious time.
As I have before said, I am myself a journalist, and know the value of
even a minute’s time.”
The editor of the _Herald_ arose to shake hands in parting with his
visitor. At the door the latter turned, hesitated momentarily, and then
said:
“My excuses again, mein herr, but what was it that you called these
gentlemen? The Aeroplane Children? What is that?”
The managing editor permitted a smile to edge his lips as he turned and
pointed to a framed front page of the _Herald_, dated over two years
ago. It was double headlined in heavy, black-letter type, and profusely
illustrated with photographs of the coronation of King George V of
England.
“I called them the Airship Boys,” said the editor. “That is a title
they have won as a result of their astounding feats and innovations in
aerial navigation. The page of the _Herald_ which you see there on the
wall represents a bit of newspaper history as well as the beginning of
a new epoch in aeronautics. Those two young men, Ned Napier and Alan
Hope, two years ago last June accomplished a flight from London to
New York in twelve hours, bringing back with them photographs of the
coronation ceremonies, and enabling us to publish them nearly a week
earlier than any other American newspaper.”
“London to New York in _twelve hours_! Impossible!” ejaculated the
visitor, gaping at the picture.
“I don’t wonder at your surprise,” responded the managing editor, “but
that’s exactly what they accomplished in their _Ocean Flyer_--the
largest and highest-powered aircraft ever devised--a vessel capable
of carrying six or seven passengers at a consistent velocity of two
hundred miles and more per hour; an airship which can be easily
operated at a height of eight or ten miles, where the driver of any
other machine would either freeze to death or die from lack of oxygen.”
“You are not what you call making funnies of me?” queried the astounded
visitor, blinking at the editor fixedly through narrowed eyelids, as if
to read his inmost thought. “All this that you tell me is true then?”
“Sir!” said the managing editor with a touch of temper.
“Pardon, mein herr; I do not mean to offend, but--”
“Mr. Napier and Mr. Hope,” announced the private secretary from the
doorway.
Ned and Alan appeared, hat in hand, and were cordially greeted by
their newspaper friend. As they entered the room, the earlier visitor
brushed past them on his way out, staring almost rudely in each boy’s
face as he passed.
“Well,” said Alan, when the door clicked shut behind the man, “I hope
whoever that is will know us the next time he sees us.”
The managing editor laughed as he waved his guests to seats and offered
them cigars, which both boys refused with thanks.
“You’ll have to excuse Mr. Geisthorn, boys,” said he. “He is a newly
appointed local correspondent for the _Tageblatt_, and I nearly floored
him with an account of that London-to-New York flight of yours.”
“Oh, he was a German then,” said Ned, exchanging a significant glance
with Alan.
“Why, yes, and seems to be a very nice fellow from what little I know
of him. He arrived in this country only shortly after the war broke
out and seems quiet and inoffensive,--never gets excited over the
war news nor yells Bloody Murder when the ‘Vaterland’ is mentioned.
He calls here every now and then to give me interesting bits of news
which filter through to him but are cut out of the _Herald’s_ regular
Berlin cable service by the censor. Ever since our Mr. Russell got into
difficulties over there we haven’t been able to get anything like the
exclusive copy we used to.”
“That’s just what we’re here to see you about, sir,” Ned remarked. “We
read in this morning’s papers how Bob has been imprisoned as a spy and
is liable to be shot at any minute. President Wilson naturally doesn’t
want to embroil the United States unnecessarily in the war, and Bob may
be backed up against a wall with the firing squad aiming at him before
this ‘watchful waiting’ policy evolves any means of interceding in his
behalf. Something must be done to help him right away.”
The lines of care around the great journalist’s mouth deepened with
melancholy as he nodded.
“The _Herald_ has of course registered a formal protest. We can do no
more,” he said. “The life of a single individual doesn’t seem such a
very big thing to war-crazed men who are blinded with cannon smoke and
have been literally wading through human blood for three months past.
We can get no satisfactory answer of any sort from the German field
headquarters. The most that they will promise is that the affair will
be investigated and rigid justice meted out.”
“But, hang it all--” broke in Alan, only to be silenced by the calmer,
more practical Ned. Pulling his chair closer to the editor’s desk and
lowering his voice, he explained:
“Alan and I feel that for Bob’s sake we can’t afford to take chances on
any such vague promises as have been given you. We propose to rescue
him ourselves and without a moment’s unnecessary delay.”
“But how can--”
“Sh! In this case we must be careful that we aren’t overheard. There
might be some German sympathizer about who would send word of our
plans, or, on the other hand, even the federal government agents would
interfere if they got wind of our scheme.”
“You are right,” answered the managing editor.
He pressed the electric button on the side of his desk, summoning the
young lady secretary from the outer office.
“Miss Bloomfield, is there anyone out there waiting to see me?”
“No, sir.”
“Good! Kindly contrive to knock the big dictionary off your desk the
moment anyone comes in, so that I may be warned of any visitors without
their knowing it. That is all.” She closed the door.
“Now, boys.”
Ned resumed his explanation.
“The _Ocean Flyer_ is still there in the hangar of the Newark plant of
the Universal Transportation Company. Neither Mr. Osborne, president
of the company, nor Major Honeywell, the secretary, have any financial
interest in the airship. It belongs absolutely to Alan and me, and
we intend to use it immediately for the trip to Muhlbruck, where we
understand that Bob is awaiting trial.
“The _Flyer_ is in the best of condition and almost ready for use
at any moment. All that we need to do is to equip her with a few
mechanical supplies, food, firearms, and so on. We can make the trip
in less than twenty hours. To-day is Tuesday. If all goes well, we can
have Bob back here ready to go out on a city assignment for you by next
Monday.”
Wrinkles of deep thought lined the great newspaper man’s forehead as he
listened attentively to the brief outline of the Airship Boys’ plan. He
would have met such statements from any other boys not yet twenty-one
years old with absolute ridicule, but he knew that, despite their
youth, Ned Napier and Alan Hope were fully capable of carrying out
their scheme.
“One thing more, though, boys,” said he, after a short period of
silence. “Just how are you going to get Mr. Russell out of prison
after you arrive in Muhlbruck? You won’t be able to overpower a whole
German garrison, you know. Then, too, the chances are that when they
see an airship of such unusual design as yours floating down upon them,
they’ll recognize it as being of foreign construction and fire upon
you.”
Alan answered him:
“We haven’t had time to plan that far ahead yet; we’re going to let
that part of it take care of itself. We’ll have to be governed by
circumstances after we get there anyway.”
“And in regard to their firing upon us as a hostile airship,”
supplemented Ned. “I think the chances are that they may take us for
one of their new types of dirigibles that Count Zeppelin is said to
have almost ready for a big aerial raid upon England.”
The editor smiled a bit sadly at their shining eyes and enthusiastic
faces. Then he shook his head.
“I don’t believe that even a German private could mistake the unusual
build of the _Ocean Flyer_ for the bologna-shaped gas bag of a
Zeppelin,” said he. “Still, you are very brave boys, and I want to
compliment you sincerely upon your pluck in attempting this thing. All
luck go with you. Now, what is it that you came here to have me do in
your behalf?”
“Just this,” said Ned. “We would like to have you furnish us with full
credentials as war-correspondents for the New York _Herald_ to protect
us from petty annoyances in case we should, for some unforeseen reason,
have to abandon the _Flyer_ and make our escape on foot. We promise you
that the passports will not be used in any way that might implicate
the paper in a breach of neutrality courtesies, and, anyway, we’re not
going to do any actual fighting if we can help it.
“Also, we would like to have a personal letter to General Haberkampf,
the German commandant at Muhlbruck, explaining that Bob Russell is an
authorized and fully-accredited representative of the _Herald_, and
the last person in the world to be concerned in secret service for the
Allies.”
“Certainly you shall have all that you ask for,” cried the managing
editor. “And here’s hoping that you make that bigoted old General
Haberkampf come to his knees with--”
_Crash!_
Further utterance froze on the editor’s lips and both boys sprang
startled to their feet. Miss Bloomfield’s big dictionary had fallen to
the floor with a bang in the outer office!
The editor strode to the private door just as it was pushed open by
none other than Mr. Geisthorn, the new correspondent for the _Berliner
Tageblatt_. Miss Bloomfield’s face showed angrily over his shoulder.
For a breathless moment all four of those in the private office stared
quizzically at each other. The German was the first to recover his
composure.
“Excuse, gentlemen,” said he, bowing low to each in turn, “I did not
mean to interrupt, but did I not leave my gloves there on the desk?”
“I think not, sir,” replied the editor gravely. “Come in. You do not
interrupt us. My conference with these gentlemen is already concluded.
Mr. Napier, Mr. Hope, good day. I shall send you by boy this afternoon
the copies from our files about which you inquired. Good-bye!”
As the Airship Boys passed out of the office, Mr. Geisthorn again bent
upon them his peculiarly disconcerting stare. They remarked that his
pale blue eyes were as hard and cold as steel.