Tim’s instant response to the appeal from the flood-stricken village pleased the managing editor immensely.

“Fine, Tim, fine,” said Carson. “This will be great stuff. Good advertising 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 you carry?”

“About five hundred pounds,” said the flying reporter. “Have them put it in 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 being left out of the party. “If you’re going to take five hundred pounds of food and medical supplies, there won’t be room for me.”

“I know it, Ralph, and I’m sorry,” replied Tim. “But right now the food and medicine mean more to those villagers than your presence circling around in the clouds above them.”

Tim’s words were without sarcasm and Ralph grinned in spite of his disappointment, but he knew that Tim was right.

“I’ll go out to the field with you,” he volunteered, “and I may be able to help you fix the parachute.”

“You could help a lot,” agreed Tim, and they hurried out of the office on their way to the airport.

When they reached the field, Tim enlisted the aid of Hunter and they opened up a parachute pack. Springs were carefully inserted and so arranged that they would force the big silken umbrella open three seconds after it had been dropped from the plane.

They were just completing their work with the parachute when a truck from the Red Cross office arrived with the supplies, packed in two strong 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 glass tubes. They’ve packed everything carefully.”

Tim soon rigged the sacks on the side of the Lark with the parachute attached to them. A single hard jerk on the rope which held the sacks would 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 of his flight. Finally, satisfied that all was well, he climbed into the rear cockpit and settled his long legs on the rudder bar. The motor was purring musically.

Ralph climbed up on the fuselage and bent close to Tim, “Good luck,” he shouted, and slapped his chum on the back.

That was characteristic of the generousness of Ralph’s nature and Tim warmed inwardly for he knew how keenly Ralph wanted to make the trip with him.

With a roar of the motor and a flirt of its tail, Tim sent the Lark rocketing into the eastern sky on its errand of mercy while the great presses in the News building uptown were even then grinding out the story 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 up the marooned village, a cluster of houses in the midst of a great expanse of angry flood waters.

The roar of the Lark’s motor attracted the attention of the villagers and they gathered in the town square to watch the circling plane. Tim swept low and pointed to the sacks on the side of his plane. The expressions on the upturned faces of the people indicated that they understood what he was going to attempt.

Tim banked sharply and headed upstream. The clouds had broken somewhat but there were indications of an almost momentary squall. He would have to hurry to accomplish his mission. The winds were hard out of the east and it would take careful calculations of speed and wind drift to land his cargo on the tiny island.

When he was a mile upstream from the village, Tim turned and headed down stream, ready for the attempt. He cut the speed of the Lark as low as he dared and waited until he judged the right moment was at hand. Then he jerked 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 and billow out in the breeze.

For a moment Tim watched the parachute falling straight and true. The wind was a trifle stronger than he had anticipated but it looked as if the sacks would land near the far end of the island.

A sudden squall swept over the valley and rain blotted out the scene below. It was over in thirty seconds but when Tim sighted the parachute again it was settling into the churning waters at the south end of the island. The villagers desperately cast long poles with hooked ends into the stream in an effort to snare the parachute and pull it to shore, but in less than a minute the silken umbrella, with its two sacks of serum and food, were sucked down by the hungry Cedar.

Tim was heart-sick when he turned the Lark up-stream, nosed down, and sped over the village again. He leaned over the side of the cockpit and tried, with gestures, to tell the disappointed group that he would return to Atkinson, secure more supplies, and make another attempt. But in his heart he doubted if the second trip would be any more successful than the first. The clouds were heavier and the winds had increased to almost gale strength. Riding on the wings of the easterly wind, he swept down on the Atkinson airport just forty minutes after his unsuccessful attempt to relieve the suffering at Auburn.

While his plane splashed over the muddy field and slithered to a stop in front of the office, Tim evolved a plan which might mean the salvation of the villagers. Desperate it was, and its chances of success would be slim, 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 was Ralph Parsons, a camera in hand.

“Just a minute, Tim,” yelled the managing editor, as the young flyer started 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. I failed.”

“What,” exclaimed the managing editor, for failure was something that so far had not entered into the life of the flying reporter. “Why what do you mean, Tim?”

“The sacks landed in the river,” explained Tim. “I had them aimed all right but a little squall swept over the valley after I released them and 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 little town 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 stuff there 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’s blue eyes and the determined lines around his mouth convinced the managing 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’s your neck; not mine that you’re risking.” With that the managing editor hurried to his car and sped toward the city to fulfill his part of the preparations.

“Do you think you can do it?” Ralph anxiously wanted to know as they hurried 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 down on this job I won’t need to come back. And you know what that would mean to me.”

Ralph was silent, weighing his chum’s chances for success, and they talked no more until they reached the office and entered the manager’s room.

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 over in the valley are in bad shape, too.”

“They need help,” agreed Tim, “and I’m going to make another try right away. Is that old Jenny over in hangar No. 3 capable of staggering into the 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 in the air. What do you want with that old crate?”

“Never mind that, Carl. How much do you want for it if we can get the motor to turn over fast enough to get into the air?”

Hunter whistled and scratched his ear reflectively. “About $200 the way she 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 you didn’t try to hold me up. He’ll O.K. the bill when he comes back. Let’s get 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, a sister ship to the one Ralph had smashed on his first solo hop. Orders flew from Tim and Hunter and in less than fifteen minutes a crew of mechanics had gone over the old plane, filled its motor with gas and oil, 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 sky bird and make it water proof,” said Tim. Hunter hustled out to find the heavy 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 supply of serum and food, the Jenny was a queer looking bird. The bottom of the fuselage had been covered with heavy canvas and doused liberally with quick drying shellac to make it water-tight. The decrepit wings showed where new patches had been hurriedly slapped on and mechanics had completed emergency wiring of the wings to insure them from collapsing and sending Tim spinning down from the clouds with his plane out of control.

The new sacks of supplies were dumped into the forward cockpit. Tim swung into the rear pit, ran the throttle back and forth and listened to the song of the motor. Its r.p.m.’s were a little slow but it was firing steady and true. He waggled the controls to be sure that everything responded and then slipped his goggles down over his eyes.

“Don’t take too many chances,” the managing editor yelled as he revved up the motor.

Tim waved his hand, and then pushed the throttle on full. The old skybird quivered and gathered herself for the takeoff. The wings creaked and groaned but the motor responded to its task and Tim finally lifted the old crate off the ground and soared into the east for the third time that day.

He glanced at his wrist watch. It was nearly 5 o’clock and that meant only a little more than an hour of light left in which to accomplish his task. With 100 miles to the valley and against the wind all the way, it required nearly an hour and a half for the old ship couldn’t turn a mile over eighty an hour.

Tim settled down to do some straight and careful flying. He nursed the old crate along for all it was worth and the “Hisso” hammered until he thought it would throw connecting rods all over the countryside.

For nearly an hour Tim dodged rain squalls. Then, realizing that he was getting down into the river territory, he brought the old crate closer to the ground.

As he sped along above the broken landscape, Tim craned from the cockpit, watching the ground below with eyes that smarted in the sharp backwash of the propeller.

When he found a large field, fenced in with heavy posts, he banked sharply and dropped his plane closer to the ground. Now he was roaring along not more than ten feet above the soggy, waterlogged field. It was anything but an inviting spot for a forced landing. As a matter of fact Tim knew he wouldn’t have a chance for any kind of a landing if his motor cut out on him then.

Ahead of him loomed the edge of the field with its fence. He picked out one post, which reared its head higher than the others. The flying reporter, like Don Quixote of old who had sent his horse galloping into a windmill, headed his craft for the sturdy timber.

The big test was at hand. It would require all the skill in Tim’s hands and all his nerve to accomplish it successfully. A false move and the Jenny would be a heap on the ground, his chance of relieving the situation at Auburn gone for he had staked everything, even his job, on this attempt.

Just before the propeller ripped into the post Tim pulled back hard on the 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 injured bird. 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 the valley again. In the air, the Jenny looked like a flying washboard but Tim had accomplished one part of his task. He had converted his craft into a seaplane of sorts. True it was that in design and balance it violated every rule of aeronautics, but it flew and that was the big thing. Now to land safely on the river.

When Tim reached the valley the rain was falling in torrents and the clouds seemed to be crushing him to earth. The light was nearly gone and he would have to work fast.

The old crate was vibrating more than ever. The crash into the post must have loosened something in the vitals of the Jenny for it was obviously near the end of its long career. If it would only hold together a few more 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 cowling and down onto the motor. It would be only a matter of minutes before the motor would cut out. Now it was a race between the coming night, a weakening motor and the flood-maddened Cedar. The odds were great but Tim faced them coolly.

He roared over the village and swept upstream. Then he turned and came down low over the river. A quarter of a mile above the upper end of the island he was barely skimming the surface of the river. He cut the motor, 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 could do. The island loomed ahead. Tim shut his eyes and ducked behind the cockpit. There was a sickening lurch, then a jarring thud that shook the whole plane.

Anxious hands pulled Tim out of the cockpit while others seized the sacks of food and medical supplies. A tree stump had broken the speed of the plane but it had struck the bank hard enough to smash the propeller to bits and bury the nose of the engine in the dirt.

Later in the evening, after the village doctor had made good use of the typhoid serum and the food had been rationed out, Tim made his way back to the scene of his landing.

The hungry Cedar had been tugging at the wrecked plane and, as Tim reached the river’s edge, it swung the craft away from the bank and out into the current. The old crate was gone but it had had a glorious finish. He would have a great story to send to the News as soon as boats were able to reach the village.