"It's the man who looks after the field," said Johnnie, as soon as he could distinguish the approaching figure. "I suppose he heard you land and has come to help."

The man rushed up. "Are you all right?" he asked anxiously. "Did you get down without much damage?"

"Don't believe I broke a thing," said Jimmy.

"You know my plane is built with unusually strong underpinning. Let's take a look at her."

Johnnie's bonfire gave them enough light to see by. Quickly they examined the plane. Nothing was wrong externally.

"Let's take a look at the oil line," said Jimmy. "Something went wrong with it."

He reached into his plane and drew out his flash-light. "Hold it," he said, shoving it into Johnnie's hand. Then he turned and opened the cowling of his engine.

With practiced eye he glanced along the length of the oil line. At first nothing wrong was apparent. But on the bottom of the engine compartment was a telltale pool of oil. Jimmy twisted his head and got a look at the underside of the oil line. The pipe was cracked open along the seam. The crack extended for several inches. Practically all the oil had dripped from the engine.

"Vibration must have done that," said Jimmy, as he turned to his companions and explained what was wrong. "Likely it happened when I went west this afternoon, for I flew the ship pretty hard. I suppose the seam gave way then, and the hard trip to-night has opened it up. Have you got any tire tape, Johnnie?"

"Plenty of it," said Johnnie. "I'll fetch you some."

"Bring all you can get," shouted Jimmy after the fast-disappearing Johnnie. "And arrange for some oil. I'll need a lot. Hurry as fast as you can, Johnnie. I mustn't lose a minute."

Jimmie stepped into the cabin of his ship and threw open a locker, in which he carried odds and ends that might be useful to him in just such an emergency as this. There were rolls of tire tape here. Jimmy grabbed them. In another moment he was rapidly taping the broken pipe-line. Over the actual opening in the seam he wound several thicknesses of the tape. Then he began to twist the stuff around the remainder of the little pipe. There was no telling how soon the rest of the seam would open, and Jimmy meant to play safe. He used all the tape he had, and when Johnnie came back with additional rolls, he added these to his reinforcements. When all the tape was wrapped, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"I don't believe we'll lose any more oil," he said, "even if the whole seam opens up. She's wound tight and thick. Now, how about oil? Could you get any?"

"Dad's bringing all we have," said Johnnie. "We buy it in thirty-gallon barrels, as we can get it so much cheaper."

"Thank heaven you've got plenty of it," said Jimmy. "It'll take a lot. How is your father going to get it here?"

"On the truck," said Johnnie. And even as he spoke they heard the chugging of a motor and a farm truck came nosing through the fog.

Jimmy stepped to the truck and greeted Mr. Lee. "It's mighty kind of you to help me out," he said. "I thought I was done, when I was forced down. But now I can take off again and I can still get to New York on time. I'll lose half an hour here probably, but there's still time enough if I don't have any more trouble."

Johnnie filled the oil tank as fast as he could. Jimmy snatched the opportunity to look his motor over. Everything seemed to be right. Then he watched the oil gauge and told Johnnie when to stop pouring oil. He made everything tight about the cowling, gave the ship a final inspection under the rays of his flash-light, and stepped into his cabin.

Now he would know whether he might possibly still succeed in his enterprise. He was fearful that the engine might have overheated and been injured when it was running with insufficient oil. Would it start now? And if it started, would it run? Could he depend upon it? Would it have power enough to lift him from the ground? Could he trust it to raise him high enough aloft to clear the mountains so close in front of him?

Fearfully Jimmy pressed the starter. There was an explosion, the propeller turned over once or twice and stopped. Jimmy's heart almost stopped with it. The engine was ruined. It would not go. He had failed in his effort. He had lost his big opportunity. All these thoughts flashed through Jimmy's mind. Then came another. "It's got to go," he muttered.

He choked the engine and again touched the starter. For a moment the starter whirred noisily, but the engine did not explode. Then there was a bang, the propeller whirled madly about, and the engine began to hum smoothly.

"There wasn't any gas in it the first time," thought Jimmy.

Then he sat and listened. His motor ran as well as ever it had run. It was purring as smoothly as a sewing-machine. He ran his eye over his instrument board. The oil gauge was registering now. Everything looked right. He did not take time to make his usual tests. Throttling down his engine, he leaned from the cabin.

"A million thanks, everybody," he said. "I'll get into touch with you later. I've got to be off this instant or I'll be late with my stuff. Goodbye and good luck to you all. Thanks ever so much."

He closed the cabin door and stepped into the pilot's seat. The engine began to pick up. It beat faster and faster. Presently the plane started to roll forward, very slowly. Jimmy drove it straight on until he could see the little, low boundary lights that marked the edge of the landing field. He drove the ship close to them, turned it about to head it into the wind, then went charging blindly back across the field through the fog, almost straight at the reddish blur that he knew was Johnnie's bonfire. His engine functioned perfectly. He gathered speed. Suddenly the plane lifted from the ground and soared almost directly above the blazing pyre. For a single instant it was visible in the red mist above the flames. Then it vanished from view in the fog as a stone disappears beneath the water.

Inside the plane Jimmy sat tense. His first effort was to gain elevation. Before him, at almost no distance, the hills once more reached an elevation of 2,000 feet. He had to climb a thousand feet to reach their tops, another thousand to be safe. But there was this factor in his favor. He was flying with the wind. The air would rush upward when it struck the slopes of the mountains and he would be borne upward with it.

But Jimmy was not waiting for any ascending currents of air to carry him aloft. He opened his throttle wide and climbed as rapidly as he could push his ship upward. For a few moments he thought of nothing else. He wanted to gain altitude. With every second he breathed more easily. His altimeter showed him he was mounting fast. Now he was at 1,300 feet, now 1,500, now 1,800, now 2,000. Up he went. His altimeter registered 2,500 feet. Jimmy knew he was safe. No hilltop in the region towered so high. At 3,000 feet he felt still better. But he did not stop climbing until he was thousands of feet aloft.

All the time he had been climbing, Jimmy had also been trying to keep on his course. The radio beacon made that easily possible. All the time it had been singing in Jimmy's ears, "dah, dah, dah, dah," and Jimmy thought he had never heard sweeter music.

Assured of sufficient elevation, certain that he was on the line, Jimmy felt sure that nothing could now prevent him from reaching his goal. He was elated. He might have broken his landing gear at Ringtown. The plane might have nosed over and damaged his propeller. He might even have crashed. Any one of these things might have happened and one of them almost certainly would have happened, had it not been for Johnnie Lee's beacon. Added to the light of the revolving beam from the landing field tower and his own flare, it had enabled Jimmy to get down safely. It wouldn't matter if he did smash his landing gear when he came down on Long Island. He would then be at his destination.

So Jimmy sailed ahead jubilantly. And his jubilation increased as he flew along. He knew just where he was. He glanced at his clock, to check the time, and ran his eye over all his other instruments. Everything seemed to be working right.

Meantime, the forces on the ground had not been idle. The moment that Jimmy took off from Ringtown, the man who had helped Jimmy there hurried to the telephone and informed the Bellefonte radio man that Jimmy had landed safely at Ringtown, had repaired a leak in his oil line, and had taken off again. At almost the same time word came to Bellefonte to the effect that a plane had just passed over the Park Place beacon. That was reassuring news, for it told the watchers that Jimmy had gotten safely aloft once more.

On he went, boring through the fog. To this he gave small heed. His entire attention was centred on his instrument board. He watched that like a hawk. From his turn and balance indicator, which told him when he was on a level keel and was flying straight, his eyes jumped to his tachometer, to his oil gauge, his oil temperature gauge, his altimeter, and so on from instrument to instrument. But most often his eye fell upon the oil gauge. Despite his confident remarks about the security of the pipe-line, he was none too sure that he would not have further trouble with it. But none developed, though Jimmy soared along, mile after mile.

A half hour passed. Jimmy had his eye on his clock. "We ought to be close to Easton," he thought. He glanced out through the fog, though he had no hope of seeing anything but mist. Nor did he see anything else. Yet the mist had a luminous quality he had not noticed at any other time. He sped on and presently the mist lost its luminous effect. For a moment Jimmy was puzzled. Then a look of inquiry came to his face. "Could that have been from the lights of Easton?" he thought. "If it was, the fog is not so dense."

He flew on. The radio beacon kept him straight on the course. His clock and his tachometer assured him that he was well past Easton. He felt easier in his mind. There were no more mountains to face. The waves of land that make Pennsylvania so rugged were flattening out. Nowhere before him, Jimmy knew, were there hills higher than 800 feet and soon he would be over country as flat as a sea on a calm day. The thought cheered him. His radio signals were growing much stronger. He knew that meant that he was approaching Hadley Field. He began to peer out into the mist, hoping to find it lessening.

Presently a bright flash of light shone for a second against a bank of fog. Jimmy almost cried out with joy. It was the beam of a revolving beacon. Soon he saw another flash of light. He began to descend and came down cautiously until he was within a thousand feet of the earth. And now he could see, here and there as he flew, luminous patches in the fog. He knew well that these bright spots were the lights of towns. He calculated his position and slowly dropped down another hundred feet.

He knew now that he was nearing Hadley Field. All about him were Jersey towns. He could begin to make them out more plainly. The mist was no longer in unbroken clouds. It was growing thin and stringy. Occasionally through a rift in it he could catch a clear glimpse of lights on the ground. And now he began to see the beams of the revolving lights at frequent intervals.

He decided to try to talk with the Hadley radio man. Picking up his mouthpiece, he sent forth a call: "Jimmy Donnelly, in the New York Press plane, calling Hadley Field."

The call was answered as soon as he had done speaking. "Hadley Field answering Donnelly," came the reply, sharp and crisp. "Is everything all right with you?"

"Couldn't be better," replied Jimmy, "except for fog. That is growing less. What can you tell me about the weather between here and Long Island?"

"It improves all the way. Long Island just told us that there was almost no fog there."

"Won't you ask them to have a taxi ready for me when I arrive," said Jimmy. "I've got to rush some films to the Press office. I mustn't lose a minute."

"We'll call them right away and tell them you want a taxi. Have you any idea where you are?"

"I ought to be near-why, there's your neon light and the beacon over the hangar. Now it's gone again. I must be very close to Hadley. It didn't seem to be more than two miles away."

"We can hear your motor," came back the reply. "We'll tell Long Island you'll be there very soon. Good luck to you. We'll call them at once."

Plainer and plainer Jimmy could see the glowing lights below him. He dropped down another hundred feet. Suddenly he heard the marker beacon at Hadley Field. Now he was sure he knew where he was. There were the lights of New Brunswick. Beyond was Metuchen. Much farther away was a glow that must be Perth Amboy. Jimmy thanked his lucky stars. No longer would he have the radio beacon to direct him. He must find his own way. Unless fog arose immediately, there would be no difficulty about that. In a few minutes he would be at his airport.

The radio beacon had already ceased to beat in his ears. He was past Hadley Field. He set his course direct for his destination, noted the compass direction, and flew on. Soon he was over Staten Island. He flew above the Narrows and was over Long Island. Below him for miles glowed the lights of Brooklyn. His plane rushed on like an eagle. Soon Brooklyn was behind him. His own field lay just before him. There were fog clouds and shreds of fog, but it was easy enough to see down between them. Another half hour, Jimmy knew, would probably put the whole island under a deep blanket of fog. He had often seen the fog making up as it was now. But he cared nothing at all about what conditions would be like in half an hour. For he was home. His landing field was just under him.

He nosed his ship downward, shut off his power, and came down in a long glide. The field was well lighted. He could see the earth perfectly. He put his ship down in a three point landing, and rolled across the turf. Then he taxied rapidly to his hangar, gave a shouted order to fill the gas and oil tanks, threw off his parachute, grabbed his camera, and rushed out to the waiting taxi. In another second he was speeding toward Manhattan.

It still lacked several minutes of his deadline when he rushed into the Press office and laid his story on the city editor's desk. A copy boy ran to the photograph department with his camera. Jimmy sank into a seat. He suddenly felt weak. He was all atremble. It was the let down after the tremendous strain he had undergone.

The managing editor came walking out of his office. He held out his hand and shook Jimmy's warmly. "It was a fine piece of work, Jimmy," he said. "Handley telegraphed us about you and the bad night. We have followed you all the way across. You had us pretty badly frightened when you told Bellefonte your engine was failing and you were making a forced landing in the mountains. And our relief was great when we found you were patched up and on your way again. It is equalled only by our pleasure in seeing you."

Jimmy looked abashed. Then he lost all sense of self-consciousness as the thought of Johnnie Lee popped into his head.

"I might not be here now, Mr. Johnson," he said, "if it had not been for my old friend Johnnie Lee. It was his bonfire that saved me. Without it I should almost certainly have crashed. I owe my life to him and the Press owes its pictures and its story to him. He wants to be a reporter, Mr. Johnson. Can't you help him? Haven't you a job for him?"

"Has he done any reporting, Jimmy? Has he had any experience?"

"No, sir. But he is clever enough. He could learn quickly, if you would give him a chance. And I have no doubt he would be glad to work for very little pay or maybe none at all until he learned how to do the work. Can't you take him on, Mr. Johnson?"

"I'm sorry, Jimmy, I'll gladly send him a check for his help to-night. We are always willing to pay anybody who helps us get news. But we have no use for green reporters here. We need trained men. We seldom hire cubs any more. We want men with experience."

"But you took me on," protested Jimmy, "and I was perfectly green."

"You came on as a flier, Jimmy. And you would be the last man in the world to say you were green at that job."

"But I learned how to get news. So could Johnnie."

"Yes, you did, Jimmy. You picked up the knack readily. And if you continue to improve, you'll make a great reporter some day. But you evidently had it in you."

"Maybe Johnnie does, too."

"I'm sorry, Jimmy. We can't possibly take him on. But if he got some experience-if he showed us that he knew how to handle a story-I might give him a chance. I feel very much indebted to him. It was a great thing for you to get through with that story, even if you were delayed."

Jimmy looked alarmed. "The story will make the edition, won't it?" he asked.

"Absolutely. And we'll scoop every other paper in town on pictures. The only other pictures in the city were sent by wire, and they aren't half as good as actual photographs. What's more, we'll have one feature that no other paper in the country will have. That is the story of how the Morning Press' flying reporter dared a fog that stopped even the Air Mail, and got through. The story is already in type, Jimmy."