Chapter 8 No.8

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."