Читать книгу: «Helen in the Editor's Chair», страница 8
Tom was right. When the scarlet biplane seemed headed for certain destruction the pilot pulled its nose up, levelled off, shot over Rolfe at dizzying speed and then climbed his craft back toward the fleecy, lazy white clouds.
“That’s Rand,” announced Tom with a certainty that left no room for argument. “He’s always up to stunts like that.”
“It must be awfully dangerous,” said Helen as she watched the plane, now a mere speck in the sky.
“It is,” agreed Tom. “Everything depends on the motor in a dive like that. If it started to miss some editor would have to write that particular flyer’s obituary.”
The morning of Saturday, the Fourth, dawned clear and bright. Small boys whose idea of fun was to arise at four o’clock and spend the next two hours throwing cannon crackers under windows had their usual good time and Tom and Helen, unable to sleep, were up at six o’clock. Half an hour later Margaret Stevens, also awakened by the almost continuous cannonading of firecrackers, came across the street.
“Jim Preston is going to take us down the lake on his seven-thirty trip before the special trains and the big crowds start coming in,” said Tom.
“But I’d like to see the trains come in,” protested Helen.
“If we wait until then,” explained Tom, “we’ll be caught in the thick of the rush for the boats and we may never get to Sandy Point. We’d better take the seven-thirty boat.”
From the hill on which the Blair home stood they looked down on the shore of Lake Dubar with its half dozen boat landings, each with two or three motorboats awaiting the arrival of the first special excursion train.
Mrs. Blair called them to breakfast and they were getting up to go inside when Margaret’s exclamation drew their attention back to the lake.
“Am I seeing things or is that the old Queen?” she asked, pointing down the lake.
Tom and Helen looked in the direction she pointed. An old, double decked boat, smoke rolling from its lofty, twin funnels, was churning its way up the lake.
“We may all be seeing things,” cried Tom, “but it looks like the Queen. I thought she had been condemned by the steamboat inspectors as unfit for further service.”
“The news that ‘Speed’ Rand is going to be at Sandy Point is bringing hundreds more than the railroad expected,” said Helen. “I talked with the station agent last night and they have four specials scheduled in this morning and they usually only have two.”
“If they vote the paved roads at the special election next week,” commented Tom, “the railroad will lose a lot of summer travel. As it is now, folks almost have to come by train for the slightest rain turns the roads around here into swamps and they can’t run the risk of being marooned here for several days.”
The Queen puffed sedately toward shore. They heard the clang of bells in the engine room and the steady chouf-chouf of the exhaust cease. The smoke drifted lazily from the funnels. Bells clanged again and the paddle wheel at the stern went into the back motion, churning the water into white froth. The forward speed of the Queen was checked and the big double-decker nosed into its pier.
“There’s old Capt. Billy Tucker sticking his white head out of the pilot house,” said Tom. “He’s probably put a few new planks in the Queen’s rotten old hull and gotten another O. K. from the boat inspectors. But if that old tub ever hits anything, the whole bottom will cave in and she’ll sink in five minutes.”
“That’s not a very cheerful Fourth of July idea,” said Margaret. “Come on, let’s eat. Your mother called us hours ago.”
They had finished breakfast and were leaving the table when Mrs. Blair spoke.
“I’ve decided not to go down to Sandy Point with you,” she said. “The crowd will be so large I’m afraid I wouldn’t enjoy it very much.”
“But we’ve planned on your going, Mother,” said Helen.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” smiled her mother, “but Margaret’s mother and I will spend the day on the hill here. We’ll be able to see the aerial circus perform and really we’ll enjoy a quiet day here at home more than being in the crowd.”
“It won’t be very quiet if those kids keep on shooting giant crackers,” said Tom.
“They’ll be going to the celebration in another hour or two and then things will quiet down,” said Mrs. Blair.
“How about a plane ride if the circus has time to take us?” asked Tom.
Helen saw her mother tremble at Tom’s question, but she replied quickly.
“That’s up to you, Tom. You know more about planes than I do and if you’re convinced the flying circus is safe, I have no objection.” But Helen made a mental reservation that the planes would have to look mighty safe before any of them went aloft.
They hurried down the hill to the pier which Jim Preston used. The boatman and his helpers had just finished polishing the three speed boats Preston owned, the Argosy, the Liberty and the Flyer, which had been raised from the bottom of the lake and partially rebuilt.
“All ready for the big day?” asked the genial boatman.
“We’re shy a few hours sleep,” grinned Tom. “Those cannon crackers started about four o’clock but outside of that we’re all pepped up and ready to go.”
“About three or four years ago,” reminded the boatman, “you used to be gallivantin’ around town with a pocketful of those big, red crackers at sun-up. Guess you can’t complain a whole lot now.”
Tom admitted that he really couldn’t complain and they climbed into the Liberty.
“I’m takin’ some last minute supplies down to the hotel at Sandy Point,” said the boatman, “so we won’t wait for anyone else.”
He switched on the starter and the boat quivered as the powerful motor took hold. They were backing away from the pier when the pilot of one of the other boats shouted for them to stop.
A boy was running down Main Street, waving a yellow envelope in his hand.
Jim Preston nosed the Liberty back to the pier and the boy ran onto the dock.
“Telegram for you,” he told Helen. “It’s a rush message and I just had to get it to you.”
“Thanks a lot,” replied Helen. “Are there any charges?”
“Nope. Message is prepaid.”
Helen ripped open the envelope with nervous fingers. Who could be sending her a telegram? Was there anything wrong with her father? No, that couldn’t be it for her mother would have received the message.
She unfolded the single sheet of yellow paper and read the telegraph operator’s bold scrawl.
“To: Helen Blair, The Herald, Rolfe. Understand ‘Speed’ Rand is at Rolfe for two days. Have rumor his next flight will be an attempted non-stop refueling flight around the world. See Rand at once and try for confirmation of rumor. Telephone as soon as possible. McClintock, The AP.”
Helen turned to Tom and Margaret.
“I’m to interview ‘Speed’ Rand for the Associated Press,” she exclaimed. “Let’s go!”
CHAPTER XIII
Helen’s Exclusive Story
While the Liberty whisked them through the glistening waters of Lake Dubar toward Sandy Point, Margaret and Tom plied Helen with questions.
“Do you think Rand will give you an interview?” demanded Tom.
“I’ve got to get one,” said Helen, her face flushed and eyes glowing with the excitement of her first big assignment for the Associated Press.
“What will you ask him? How will you act?” Margaret wanted to know.
“Now don’t try to get me flustered before I see Rand,” laughed Helen. “I think I’ll just explain that I am the local correspondent for the Associated Press, show him the telegram from Mr. McClintock and ask him to confirm or deny the story.”
“I’ll bet Rand’s been interviewed by every famous reporter in the country,” said Tom.
“Which will mean all the more honor and glory for Helen if she can get him to tell about his plans,” said Margaret.
“I’ll do my best,” promised Helen and her lips set in a line that indicated the Blair fighting spirit was on the job.
They were still more than two miles from Sandy Point when a scarlet-hued plane shot into sight and climbed dizzily toward the clouds. It spiralled up and up, the roar of its motor audible even above the noise of the speedboat’s engine.
“There’s ‘Speed’ Rand now!” cried Tom. “No one flies like that but ‘Speed’.”
The graceful little plane reached the zenith of its climb, turned over on its back and fell away in twisting series of spirals that held the little group in the boat breathless.
The plane fluttered toward the lake, seemingly without life or power. Just before it appeared about to crash, the propeller fanned the sunlight, the nose jerked up, and the little ship skimmed over the waters of the lake.
It was coming toward the Liberty at 200 miles an hour. On and on it came until the roar of its motor drowned out every other sound. Helen, Tom and Margaret threw themselves onto the floor of the boat and Jim Preston crouched low behind his steering wheel.
There was a sharp crash and Helen held her breath. She was sure the plane had struck the Liberty but the boat moved steadily ahead and she turned quickly to look for the plane.
The scarlet sky bird was limping toward the safety of the higher altitudes, its under-carriage twisted into a grotesque knot.
“What happened?” cried Tom as he stared aghast at ‘Speed’ Rand’s damaged plane. “Did we get hit?”
“Nothing wrong with the Liberty,” announced Jim Preston. “I don’t know what happened.”
Helen glanced at the speedboat’s wake where a heavy wave was being rolled up by the powerful propeller.
“I know what happened,” she cried. “‘Rand’ was just trying to give us an extra Fourth of July thrill and he forgot about the heavy wave the Liberty pulls. He must have banged his landing gear into it.”
“You’re right, Helen,” agreed Tom. “But I can’t figure out why he didn’t nose over and dive to the bottom of the lake.”
“I expect that would have happened to any flyer except Rand,” said Helen. “He’s supposed to be a wizard in the air.”
“Wonder how this accident will affect the crowd at Sandy Point. Think it will keep them from riding with the air circus?” Margaret asked.
“Depends on how widely the story gets out,” said Tom. “I’d hate to have Old Man Provost’s celebration ruined by wild rumors. He’s spent a lot of money getting ready to give the public a good time.”
Helen had been watching the progress of Rand’s plane. Instead of heading back toward Sandy Point he was crossing the lake to the east side.
“He’s not going back to Sandy Point,” Helen cried. “Look, he’s going to land on the east side back in the hills.”
“Then he’ll leave the plane there and no one at Sandy Point will know anything about the accident,” exclaimed Tom. “That means we’re the only ones who know.”
Helen was thinking rapidly. Here was just the chance she needed to get hold of Rand and ask him about his world trip. She might be able to make a trade with him. It was worth a try. She leaned forward and spoke to the boatman.
“Will you swing over east, land and pick up the pilot of that plane?” she asked Jim Preston.
Tom, divining the motive back of Helen’s request, added, “We’ll pay for the extra time.”
The boatman agreed and the nose of the Liberty was soon cleaving a white-crested path for the east shore. The scarlet plane had disappeared but from the drone of the motor they knew it was somewhere in the hills back from the lakeshore.
Jim Preston let the Liberty drift to an easy landing alongside a rocky outcropping and Tom, Helen and Margaret hopped out.
“We won’t be gone long,” they promised.
Back through the sparse timber along the lake shore they hurried and out into a long, narrow meadow. The scene that greeted them held them spellbound for a moment. Then they raced toward the far end of the pasture.
“Speed” Rand had landed the damaged plane in a fence.
Tom was the first to reach the wrecked craft. He expected to find the famous flyer half dead in the wreckage. Instead, he was greeted by a debonair young fellow who crawled from beneath one wing where he had been tossed by the impact when the plane struck the fence.
“My gosh,” exclaimed Tom, “aren’t you hurt?”
“Sorry,” smiled Rand, “but I’ll have to disappoint you. I haven’t anything more than a few bruises.”
Helen and Margaret arrived so out of breath they were speechless.
Rand bowed slightly. Then his eyes glowed with recognition.
“Hello,” he said. “Aren’t you the folks in the speedboat?”
“We sure were,” Tom said. “You scared us half to death.”
“I scared myself,” admitted Rand, his blue eyes reflecting the laughter on his lips. “It’s been so long since I’ve been in a speedboat I’d forgotten all about the big wake one of those babies pull. I’m just lucky not to be at the bottom of the lake.”
“You’re really ‘Speed’ Rand, aren’t you?” asked Margaret.
He smiled and nodded and Margaret decided she had never seen a more likable young man. His hair was brown and curly and his face was bronzed by the sun of many continents.
“If you’ve got your boat around here, suppose you give me a lift back to Sandy Point,” suggested Rand.
“We’ll be glad to,” Helen replied. “I don’t suppose you’ll want it broadcast about the accident this morning on the lake and your cracking up in a fence over here?”
“What are you driving at? Trying to hi-jack me into paying you to keep quiet?” The last words were short and angry and his eyes hardened.
“Nothing like that,” explained Tom quickly. “We know that broadcasting news of an accident to ‘Speed’ Rand will hurt Old Man Provost and his celebration.”
“Then what do you want?” Rand insisted.
“We want to know whether there is anything to the rumor that you’re considering a non-stop refueling flight around the world,” said Helen.
Rand stopped and stared at the young editor of the Herald in open amazement.
“Great heavens,” he exclaimed. “You sound like a newspaper reporter.”
“I am,” replied Helen. “I’m the editor of the Rolfe Herald and also correspondent for the Associated Press.”
“And you want a story from me about my world flight in return for keeping quiet about the accident.”
“You can call it that,” admitted Helen.
They had reached the shore of the lake and Rand did not answer until they were in the Liberty and Jim Preston had the craft headed for Sandy Point.
“Suppose I deny the rumor,” said Rand.
“You’ve already admitted it,” Helen replied.
“I have?” he laughed. “How?”
“Less than five minutes ago you said ‘And you want a story about my world flight in return for keeping quiet about the accident?’ That certainly indicates that you are seriously considering such a project.”
Rand laughed and shook his head.
“I guess I might as well give in,” he chuckled. “I’ve been questioned in every city I’ve been in and so far I’ve managed to evade confirming the rumor but it looks like you’ve got me in a corner. If I don’t tell you, will you still spread the story about the accident?”
“No,” replied Helen quickly. “Mr. Provost has too much at stake to risk ruining his celebration. It was foolish on your part to take the risk you did and we’re trusting that there won’t be any more such risks taken by the air circus while it is here.”
“You’re right. There won’t be,” said Rand firmly, “and I’ve learned a lesson myself.”
“You’re actually planning the world flight?” asked Tom, who wanted to get Rand back on the subject of Helen’s assignment.
“I can’t get away from you,” smiled the flyer, “so I might as well give you all of the details. Got some copypaper?”
Helen fished a pad of paper and a pencil from a pocket and handed them to Rand.
“If you don’t mind,” he explained, “I’ll jot down the principal names of the foreign towns where I’ll make the refueling contacts. Some of them have queer names and it will help you keep them straight.”
The flyer drew a rough sketch of the world, outlining the continents of the northern hemisphere. He located New York on the map and then drew a dotted line extending eastward across the North Atlantic, over Great Britain, Germany, Russia, Siberia, a corner of China, out over the Kamchatka peninsula, across the Bering Sea, over Alaska and then almost a straight line back to New York.
“This is my proposed route,” he explained, “covering some 15,000 miles. It will take about four days if I have good luck and am not forced down.”
“But I thought the distance around the world was 25,000 miles,” said Margaret.
“That’s the circumference at the equator,” smiled Rand, “but I’m going to make the trip well up in the northern latitudes. In fact, I’ll be pretty close to the Arctic circle part of the time.”
Rand bent over his makeshift map again, marking in the names of the cities where he intended to refuel while in flight.
“When will you take off from New York?” Helen asked.
“In about two weeks,” replied Rand without looking up from the map.
Helen gasped. This, indeed, was news. Every paper in the land would carry it on the front page.
“What kind of a plane do you intend to use?” Tom wanted to know.
“I’m having one built to order,” said the flyer. “It’s a special monoplane the Skycraft Company is testing now at their factory in Pennsylvania. I had a telegram yesterday saying the plane would be ready the first of next week so when I leave Sandy Point I’ll go directly to Pennsylvania to get the plane and make the final tests myself. The air circus will finish its summer tour alone.”
Before they reached the landing at Sandy Point, Rand explained how he intended to refuel while in flight, gave Helen the name of his mechanic and described details of the plane.
When they touched the landing at Sandy Point a heavyset man dressed in brown coveralls jumped into the boat.
“What in heaven’s name happened?” he asked Rand excitedly.
“I flew too close to this motor boat,” said the flyer, “and damaged my landing gear on the wave it was pulling. Instead of coming back here to crack up I went across the lake and landed in a meadow. These young people followed and brought me back. I banged the ship up considerable and in return for keeping them quiet, I gave them the story about my world flight. They’re newspaper folks.”
The heavy man stared at Helen, Tom and Margaret.
“Well, I guess it had to come out some time,” he admitted and Rand introduced him as Tiny Adams, his manager of the air circus.
“Tiny runs the show when I go gallivanting around on some fool stunt,” explained Rand.
Even at that early hour the crowd was gathering at Sandy Point. Motor boats were whisking down the lake from Rolfe and the beautiful beach was thick with bathers in for a morning dip in the clear waters of the lake.
They hurried off the boat dock and pushed their way through the crowd along the lake shore.
“I’m going to the hotel and telephone my story to the Associated Press,” said Helen. “And thanks so much, Mr. Rand, for confirming it.”
“That’s all right,” grinned the famous flyer. “I guess you youngsters deserve the break. You certainly were after the news and I appreciate you’re keeping quiet about my accident.”
“We’ll have to print it in our weekly,” warned Tom.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Rand. “The celebration will be over long before your paper comes out. See you at the field later,” he added as he hurried away, followed by the manager of the air circus.
Helen stood for a moment looking after the tall flyer as he edged his way through the ever-increasing crowd.
“Isn’t he handsome?” sighed Margaret.
“What a story,” commented Tom.
“Let’s get going,” said Helen, and she started for the hotel.
They reached the rambling old hotel which overlooked the lake and were met at the door by Art Provost, the manager of the resort.
“Glad to see you down so early,” he said as he welcomed them.
“We thought we’d get here before the crowd,” Tom said, “but from the looks of the young mob down at the beach now they must have started coming in about sundown last night.”
“They did,” chuckled Mr. Provost. “Looks like the greatest celebration in the history of Lake Dubar. It’s the air circus that’s drawing them in and I hope there are no accidents.”
Helen glanced at Tom, warning her brother not to reply.
“I’ve met ‘Speed’ Rand,” she said, “and I think you’ll find him a careful flyer. I’m sure he’ll insist on every possible precaution.”
They went into the lobby of the hotel and Helen entered the telephone booth. She started to put in a long distance call for the Associated Press, then changed her mind and returned to where Tom and Margaret were waiting.
“I’m so nervous I’m afraid I won’t be able to talk,” she said. “Feel my hands.”
Tom and Margaret did as Helen directed. They found her hands clammy with perspiration.
“I think I’ll sit down and write the story and telegraph it,” said Helen.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” insisted Tom. “Here, I’ll put the call through and you just repeat what Rand told you. They’ll write the story at the Cranston bureau.”
Helen nodded in agreement and Tom bolted into the telephone booth, got the long distance operator at Rolfe and put in a collect call for the Cranston bureau of the Associated Press.
Two minutes later Tom announced that the A.P. was on the line. Helen entered the booth and took the receiver. Tom pulled the door shut and Helen was closeted with her big story in the tiny room, the mouthpiece before her connecting her with the bureau where they were waiting for the story.
“Is Mr. McClintock in the office?” she asked.
“He’s busy,” replied the voice. “I’ll take the message.”
“Tell Mr. McClintock that Helen Blair is calling about the Rand story,” she insisted.
She heard the connection switch and the chief of the Cranston bureau snapped a question at her.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Rand give you the usual denial?”
The sharpness of the words nettled Helen.
“No he didn’t,” she replied. “He gave me the whole story. He’ll leave New York within the next two weeks on a non-stop refueling flight around the world.”
“What!” shouted the A.P. chief.
Helen repeated her statement.
“You’ve got the biggest story in days,” gasped McClintock. “Have you got plenty of substantiation in case he tries to deny it later.”
“Two witnesses,” replied Helen, “and a map of his route which he drew and signed for me.”
“That’s enough. Let’s go. Give me everything he told you. Spell the names of his foreign refueling points slowly. I’ll take it directly on a typewriter and we’ll start the bulletins out on the main news wires.”
The first excitement of the story worn off, Helen found herself exceedingly calm. In short, clear sentences she related for McClintock all of the information “Speed” Rand had given her.
“Send me the map he drew by the first mail,” the A.P. correspondent instructed. “It will make a great feature story. Thanks a lot, Miss Blair. You’re a real newspaperwoman.”
