CHAPTER FIVE
Tim's instant response to the appeal from the flood-stricken villagepleased the managing editor immensely.
"Fine, Tim, fine," said Carson. "This will be great stuff. Goodadvertising for the News and at the same time a real bit of service.I'll call the Red Cross and have everything ready. How much can youcarry?"
"About five hundred pounds," said the flying reporter. "Have them put itin two strong sacks, big ones, and get it to the field in half an hour.I'll hustle out there and get a parachute ready."
"Where do I come in?" expostulated Ralph, who had no intention of beingleft out of the party. "If you're going to take five hundred pounds offood and medical supplies, there won't be room for me."
"I know it, Ralph, and I'm sorry," replied Tim. "But right now the foodand medicine mean more to those villagers than your presence circlingaround in the clouds above them."
Tim's words were without sarcasm and Ralph grinned in spite of hisdisappointment, but he knew that Tim was right.
"I'll go out to the field with you," he volunteered, "and I may be ableto help you fix the parachute."
"You could help a lot," agreed Tim, and they hurried out of the officeon their way to the airport.
When they reached the field, Tim enlisted the aid of Hunter and theyopened up a parachute pack. Springs were carefully inserted and soarranged that they would force the big silken umbrella open threeseconds after it had been dropped from the plane.
They were just completing their work with the parachute when a truckfrom the Red Cross office arrived with the supplies, packed in twostrong canvas sacks.
"The serum's in the center of one of the bags," said the truck driver,"and they said you wouldn't need to worry about breaking the glasstubes. They've packed everything carefully."
Tim soon rigged the sacks on the side of the Lark with the parachuteattached to them. A single hard jerk on the rope which held the sackswould send them tumbling earthward to the stricken village.
The flying reporter checked his plane with even greater care than usual.He couldn't afford to take a risk, too much depended on the outcome ofhis flight. Finally, satisfied that all was well, he climbed into therear cockpit and settled his long legs on the rudder bar. The motor waspurring musically.
Ralph climbed up on the fuselage and bent close to Tim, "Good luck," heshouted, and slapped his chum on the back.
That was characteristic of the generousness of Ralph's nature and Timwarmed inwardly for he knew how keenly Ralph wanted to make the tripwith him.
With a roar of the motor and a flirt of its tail, Tim sent the Larkrocketing into the eastern sky on its errand of mercy while the greatpresses in the News building uptown were even then grinding out thestory of his daring attempt.
After a little less than an hour of flying, he sighted the swirling,dirty-yellow current of the Cedar and swung down the valley to pick upthe marooned village, a cluster of houses in the midst of a greatexpanse of angry flood waters.
The roar of the Lark's motor attracted the attention of the villagersand they gathered in the town square to watch the circling plane. Timswept low and pointed to the sacks on the side of his plane. Theexpressions on the upturned faces of the people indicated that theyunderstood what he was going to attempt.
Tim banked sharply and headed upstream. The clouds had broken somewhatbut there were indications of an almost momentary squall. He would haveto hurry to accomplish his mission. The winds were hard out of the eastand it would take careful calculations of speed and wind drift to landhis cargo on the tiny island.
When he was a mile upstream from the village, Tim turned and headed downstream, ready for the attempt. He cut the speed of the Lark as low as hedared and waited until he judged the right moment was at hand. Then hejerked the rope that held his precious cargo to the side of the plane.He saw the sacks drop away and watched the parachute spring open andbillow out in the breeze.
For a moment Tim watched the parachute falling straight and true. Thewind was a trifle stronger than he had anticipated but it looked as ifthe sacks would land near the far end of the island.
A sudden squall swept over the valley and rain blotted out the scenebelow. It was over in thirty seconds but when Tim sighted the parachuteagain it was settling into the churning waters at the south end of theisland. The villagers desperately cast long poles with hooked ends intothe stream in an effort to snare the parachute and pull it to shore, butin less than a minute the silken umbrella, with its two sacks of serumand food, were sucked down by the hungry Cedar.
Tim was heart-sick when he turned the Lark up-stream, nosed down, andsped over the village again. He leaned over the side of the cockpit andtried, with gestures, to tell the disappointed group that he wouldreturn to Atkinson, secure more supplies, and make another attempt. Butin his heart he doubted if the second trip would be any more successfulthan the first. The clouds were heavier and the winds had increased toalmost gale strength. Riding on the wings of the easterly wind, he sweptdown on the Atkinson airport just forty minutes after his unsuccessfulattempt to relieve the suffering at Auburn.
While his plane splashed over the muddy field and slithered to a stop infront of the office, Tim evolved a plan which might mean the salvationof the villagers. Desperate it was, and its chances of success would beslim, but it was worth trying if he could convince his managing editor.
Carson was at the field waiting for news of the flight. At his side wasRalph Parsons, a camera in hand.
"Just a minute, Tim," yelled the managing editor, as the young flyerstarted to climb down from him mud-bespattered plane.
"Pose in your ship while we get some pictures of the 'Hero of the Air.'"
Tim shook his head. "Not now Mr. Carson, I'm anything but a hero. Ifailed."
"What," exclaimed the managing editor, for failure was something that sofar had not entered into the life of the flying reporter. "Why what doyou mean, Tim?"
"The sacks landed in the river," explained Tim. "I had them aimed allright but a little squall swept over the valley after I released themand carried them too far."
Carson was silent and his disappointment was evident. Then Tim went on.
"But Mr. Carson, if ever any group of people needs help, that littletown of Auburn does. I went down so close I could see their faces;they're desperate. Give me another chance and I'll make good."
"There isn't time today," said the managing editor.
"Yes there is, if we work fast."
"Won't the same thing happen again?"
"No!" There was ringing conviction in Tim's words. "I'll get the stuffthere or bust in the attempt. Besides, I've got a new plan."
Carson looked at his flying reporter for a moment. The light in Tim'sblue eyes and the determined lines around his mouth convinced themanaging editor that he could back up his words with success.
"All right," he agreed, "shoot."
For a minute Tim and the managing editor, with Ralph listening in,talked earnestly.
"I think you're crazy," exclaimed Carson, "But it's worth a try. It'syour neck; not mine that you're risking." With that the managing editorhurried to his car and sped toward the city to fulfill his part of thepreparations.
"Do you think you can do it?" Ralph anxiously wanted to know as theyhurried toward the main office of the airport.
"There isn't any 'think' about it, Ralph," replied Tim. "I've got to.This is going to cost the News some good, hard cash and if I fall downon this job I won't need to come back. And you know what that would meanto me."
Ralph was silent, weighing his chum's chances for success, and theytalked no more until they reached the office and entered the manager'sroom.
Hunter looked up from his desk.
"Make it?" he asked.
"No such luck, Carl," said Tim. "The wind blew it into the river."
"Say, that's too bad," said the field manager. "I guess those folks overin the valley are in bad shape, too."
"They n
eed help," agreed Tim, "and I'm going to make another try rightaway. Is that old Jenny over in hangar No. 3 capable of staggering intothe air?"
"You mean the sister to the ship Ralph cracked up a few weeks ago?"
"That's the one."
"It might get off the ground but I wouldn't guarantee it would stay inthe air. What do you want with that old crate?"
"Never mind that, Carl. How much do you want for it if we can get themotor to turn over fast enough to get into the air?"
Hunter whistled and scratched his ear reflectively. "About $200 the wayshe is, but I won't promise a thing. You'll have to take your chances."
"Sold!" said Tim, "Carson said I could buy that war relic providing youdidn't try to hold me up. He'll O.K. the bill when he comes back. Let'sget going."
With Ralph and Hunter at his heels, he hurried toward hangar No. 3.There, in one corner of the big structure, was a venerable Jenny, asister ship to the one Ralph had smashed on his first solo hop. Ordersflew from Tim and Hunter and in less than fifteen minutes a crew ofmechanics had gone over the old plane, filled its motor with gas andoil, and had it warming up in front of the hangar.
"Got any old canvas around?" Tim asked Hunter.
"There's some in No. 2 hangar. How much do you need?"
"Just enough to cover the bottom of the fuselage of this ancient skybird and make it water proof," said Tim. Hunter hustled out to find theheavy fabric while Ralph hurried away in quest of a pot of shellac.
By the time the managing editor returned from the city with a new supplyof serum and food, the Jenny was a queer looking bird. The bottom of thefuselage had been covered with heavy canvas and doused liberally withquick drying shellac to make it water-tight. The decrepit wings showedwhere new patches had been hurriedly slapped on and mechanics hadcompleted emergency wiring of the wings to insure them from collapsingand sending Tim spinning down from the clouds with his plane out ofcontrol.
The new sacks of supplies were dumped into the forward cockpit. Timswung into the rear pit, ran the throttle back and forth and listened tothe song of the motor. Its r.p.m.'s were a little slow but it was firingsteady and true. He waggled the controls to be sure that everythingresponded and then slipped his goggles down over his eyes.
"Don't take too many chances," the managing editor yelled as he revvedup the motor.
Tim waved his hand, and then pushed the throttle on full. The oldskybird quivered and gathered herself for the takeoff. The wings creakedand groaned but the motor responded to its task and Tim finally liftedthe old crate off the ground and soared into the east for the third timethat day.
He glanced at his wrist watch. It was nearly 5 o'clock and that meantonly a little more than an hour of light left in which to accomplish histask. With 100 miles to the valley and against the wind all the way, itrequired nearly an hour and a half for the old ship couldn't turn a mileover eighty an hour.
Tim settled down to do some straight and careful flying. He nursed theold crate along for all it was worth and the "Hisso" hammered until hethought it would throw connecting rods all over the countryside.
For nearly an hour Tim dodged rain squalls. Then, realizing that he wasgetting down into the river territory, he brought the old crate closerto the ground.
As he sped along above the broken landscape, Tim craned from thecockpit, watching the ground below with eyes that smarted in the sharpbackwash of the propeller.
When he found a large field, fenced in with heavy posts, he bankedsharply and dropped his plane closer to the ground. Now he was roaringalong not more than ten feet above the soggy, waterlogged field. It wasanything but an inviting spot for a forced landing. As a matter of factTim knew he wouldn't have a chance for any kind of a landing if hismotor cut out on him then.
Ahead of him loomed the edge of the field with its fence. He picked outone post, which reared its head higher than the others. The flyingreporter, like Don Quixote of old who had sent his horse galloping intoa windmill, headed his craft for the sturdy timber.
The big test was at hand. It would require all the skill in Tim's handsand all his nerve to accomplish it successfully. A false move and theJenny would be a heap on the ground, his chance of relieving thesituation at Auburn gone for he had staked everything, even his job, onthis attempt.
Just before the propeller ripped into the post Tim pulled back hard onthe stick. The Jenny answered sluggishly and his heart skipped a beat.The plane staggered in midair and Tim heard the sound of rending wood.Then the old craft lunged on and upward, shaking herself like an injuredbird. Tim looked back to see his landing gear draped over the post.
He could hardly repress a shout as he headed the old crate for thevalley again. In the air, the Jenny looked like a flying washboard butTim had accomplished one part of his task. He had converted his craftinto a seaplane of sorts. True it was that in design and balance itviolated every rule of aeronautics, but it flew and that was the bigthing. Now to land safely on the river.
When Tim reached the valley the rain was falling in torrents and theclouds seemed to be crushing him to earth. The light was nearly gone andhe would have to work fast.
The old crate was vibrating more than ever. The crash into the post musthave loosened something in the vitals of the Jenny for it was obviouslynear the end of its long career. If it would only hold together a fewmore minutes it would wind up its life in a smashing climax.
The tired old "Hisso" sputtered, then caught again and fired steadily.But Tim knew the signs. The rain was finding its way through the cowlingand down onto the motor. It would be only a matter of minutes before themotor would cut out. Now it was a race between the coming night, aweakening motor and the flood-maddened Cedar. The odds were great butTim faced them coolly.
He roared over the village and swept upstream. Then he turned and camedown low over the river. A quarter of a mile above the upper end of theisland he was barely skimming the surface of the river. He cut themotor, there was plenty of speed left.
Then Tim set his flying scow down on the water. He struck with a crash,bounced, struck again, and splashed along on top of the foaming water.He was going fast, too fast for comfort, but there was nothing he coulddo. The island loomed ahead. Tim shut his eyes and ducked behind thecockpit. There was a sickening lurch, then a jarring thud that shook thewhole plane.
Anxious hands pulled Tim out of the cockpit while others seized thesacks of food and medical supplies. A tree stump had broken the speed ofthe plane but it had struck the bank hard enough to smash the propellerto bits and bury the nose of the engine in the dirt.
Later in the evening, after the village doctor had made good use of thetyphoid serum and the food had been rationed out, Tim made his way backto the scene of his landing.
The hungry Cedar had been tugging at the wrecked plane and, as Timreached the river's edge, it swung the craft away from the bank and outinto the current. The old crate was gone but it had had a gloriousfinish. He would have a great story to send to the News as soon as boatswere able to reach the village.