On the way back to the office, Tim mulled over the events of the last few weeks. First the attack on the transcontinental air mail, then the warning note from the Sky Hawk, his gruff reception at the Ace air circus field and finally his discovery of the tailskid track on a day that was rotten for flying. Only a flyer with an urgent mission would think of flying with the weather conditions what they were and yet someone had evidently landed at the Ace field within the last few minutes.

Tim felt that the gods who hold the threads of fate were weaving a new pattern and that he was being drawn deeper and deeper into it. The flying reporter was seldom blue, but something in the air, the very grayish color of the day depressed him and he was moody when he reached the office.

“What’s the matter, Tim?” asked Dan Watkins, the venerable head of the copy desk. “You look like you’d lost your last friend. Suppose you’re mad because all this rainy weather is keeping you tied down and you have to associate with us earthworms.” Dan chuckled at his own sally.

“I don’t know what’s the matter, Dan,” admitted Tim. “I feel all restless and stirred up inside—unsettled.”

The head copy reader looked intently at the flying reporter and what he saw in the usually clear blue eyes brought forth his next words.

“Get your hat, Tim,” he invited, “and come out and have lunch with me. It will do you good to get out of this stuffy atmosphere.”

Tim welcomed the invitation and Dan guided him down a side street to a cheery little restaurant. There was little conversation until they had given their orders for lunch.

On their way to the restaurant Watkins had carefully appraised Tim, recalled everything he could remember about the boy, and had reached a decision. He started the conversation over the white-topped table.

“I know what’s troubling you, Tim,” he began. “You’re afraid you’ll get in a rut. Right?”

Tim nodded, his eyes on fingers which were fumbling nervously with the silverware.

“I guess that’s about right,” he admitted, his voice low. “I don’t want to be a flying reporter all my life and I’m afraid I haven’t the background to get ahead. But there’s something more than that.” And Tim told the copy reader about the note from the Sky Hawk.

“Don’t let that worry you, Tim,” advised the veteran newspaper man. “It may be only a joke; it may not, but whatever it is, I have confidence you’ll be able to take care of yourself. Right now there is something we want to thresh out. A minute ago you said you didn’t think you had the background to get ahead. What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I’ve only had a high school education and it takes more than that to get ahead in the modern newspaper world. I’ve got a fine job now, piloting the new plane, but in a few years I won’t be fast enough for that. Then what? Oh, maybe the weather has made me blue, but I’ve gotten into an awful muddle.”

“I think you have,” agreed the veteran of the copy desk, “and it looks like it’s high time for your uncle Dan to straighten things out for you.”

“I’ve seen lots of young chaps go through this same trouble,” he went on. “Some of them snapped out of it while others went under. But listen to me, Tim,” and there was rare charm and power in the words, “You must never let this thing get your goat. You’re made of too fine material.”

Tim started to reply but Dan waved his words aside.

“You have the opportunity of a lifetime,” he continued. “Here you are—young, capable, and with aviation in its swaddling clothes. Within ten years it will be a giant among giants and the newspaper man who knows aviation from the ground up will be in an enviable position—a position to command real power and respect.”

There was new interest in Tim’s eyes and he drank in Dan Watkins’ words.

“You’re luckier than you know,” added the head copy reader, “for you have behind you a great newspaper organization. Someday, and someday soon, the News will need an aviation editor. Someone who knows the air from A to Z, someone with nerves and brains and foresight, and there isn’t a reason in the world why you shouldn’t fill that editorial chair when the time comes. Don’t get moody, don’t get discouraged. I know the weather gets a fellow’s nerves once in a while but you must learn to pull yourself over those rough spots.”

“I think you’re right about the future for an aviation editor,” agreed Tim, “and that’s one of the things that has put me in the dumps lately. The field is so big and I know so little about it. When the time comes to select an editor I’m afraid Carson will pass me by and pick a man with more education.”

“You can remedy that, Tim,” said Dan. “You can take work at night school and I have a fine library at my room. I’d be only too glad to lend you some of my books and suggest reading material that will help you. You’ll have to hit the line hard, Tim, but you’ve got the stuff to do it. And besides, Carson likes you and when he knows you are trying to better yourself it will make a big difference with him.”

Tim’s face was aglow with new hope and courage. “I’ll work hard,” he promised. “I love the flying game; it’s becoming life itself to me and I want to keep on but I won’t be satisfied unless I’m something more than a flying reporter.”

“I admire your ambition, but don’t be too impatient now, Tim,” counselled the copyreader. “As a matter of fact you’ve gone a lot further than most young fellows your age.”

“The growth of aviation is going to be like the growth of the newspapers. The young fellows who had plenty of foresight back in 1890 and 1900 are the big men of today. I started in the print shop back in the home town, sweeping out and sorting lead slugs. Got fifty cents a week and thought it was big pay. Next thing, I was setting type by hand out of a case. Used to sit on a high stool from 7 o’clock in the morning until night and the day before we went to press we used to work half the night.” Dan smiled a little at the thoughts of the old days.

“When we first read about Mergenthaler and his typesetting machine, we thought he was a nut of some kind. But a few believed in him and today they are the leaders in the newspaper business.”

“We used to print our weekly paper on a Washington hand press, and it took us all day to get out a few hundred copies. Now even the weeklies have modern presses while the dailies turn out 36, 48 and 56 page papers by the thousands every hour.”

“The same revolution has taken place in the editorial rooms. When I first came to work on the News we had one dinky little telegraph wire that brought only a few hundred words of news a day. We’d take that and pad it out and also used the scissors liberally to cut dispatches out of the big eastern papers. We never knew from one week to another whether our pay checks were good and it was always a race to see who could get to the bank first.”

Dan paused for a moment, then he continued, “But look at the office today. A dozen reporters, an editor to handle every department, half a dozen telegraph wires that bring the news from every corner of the world and even an airplane to ferret out the stories in the clouds.”

Tim smiled at the last phrase.

“The aviation game is like a newspaper,” went on the copyreader. “The newspaper went through its baby days and has emerged into one of the greatest institutions of our modern times. So it will be with aviation. I scoffed at the first strides of modern journalism, and look where I am.” There was no note of self-pity in the words, simply a plain statement of fact, and Dan hurried on before Tim could speak.

“I’m only a copyreader while if I had been alert to realize the possibilities way back in the nineties, I might have been the head of this paper or some other like it. I don’t want you to miss your chance Tim. You’re alert and eager now; keep on that way and I’ll help you all I can.”

When Tim left the office that afternoon the rain was still falling steadily but he did not feel depressed. He was fired with new enthusiasm and determination. Far into the night he mulled over Dan Watkins’ words and he knew that the older man’s advice was sound and true. It was a goal Tim had hardly dared dream to attain and one that at times had made his heart ache at the futility of his dreams. But the kindly counsel of the older man had set his mind into new channels of thought and given him the impetus he needed. It was a long, hard road to follow but before he went to sleep, Tim had determined to throw his every energy toward attainment of his goal.

When Tim reached the office the next morning he found Ralph Parsons waiting for him, a camera on his desk.

“Hurry up, Tim,” called his chum. “Carson just phoned down and ordered us out on an assignment. They say that the Cedar River is flooding the entire country over east. Worst high water in twenty-five years, and he wants some good pictures for this afternoon’s editions. We’ll have to hustle.”

While Ralph was talking, Tim telephoned to the airport and ordered the Lark serviced and put on the line ready to go. It was raining hard but the weather bulletin indicated clearing weather by mid-forenoon so they would have a chance to get some good pictures when they reached the valley.

Tim and Ralph skidded through the city in one of the News’ cars and when they reached the airport found the Lark ready for them, its motor turning over slowly.

Hunter came out of his office.

“It’s a bad morning for a takeoff,” he warned Tim. “What in thunder is bringing you out on a day like this?”

“We’ve got a report of a big flood in the Cedar River valley,” said Tim, “and Ralph’s going to try for some pictures if the rain clears up.”

Hunter grunted, then said, “Better keep over to the north side of the field, Tim, and get her off as quick as you can. The other end of this flat is under a good foot of water and it’s all pretty much of a swamp.”

Tim and Ralph waved at the manager of the field, Tim gave the Lark full throttle, and they sloshed over the field and got away to a sluggish takeoff. The muck and water sucked at the Lark’s wheels and it was with an effort that Tim got his craft into the air.

Once clear of the field, he headed into the east. The ceiling was low that morning; not over 500 feet, and the Lark thundered over farms and small towns at better than 100 miles an hour. Tim piloted wholly by compass but after forty-five minutes of flying they ran out of the rain and the sky began to clear. When they sighted the Cedar River valley the sun was out from behind the clouds for the first time in days.

A scene of majestic destruction unfolded itself as Tim swung the Lark over the valley of the Cedar. The usually peaceful stream was on a mighty rampage, its banks hidden by swirling torrents of dirty, yellow water which spread for more than a mile in either direction. In the heart of the foaming flood could be seen great trees, torn up by their roots, and farm buildings that bobbled and turned as if in protest. Over all there was an air of utter desolation, the surrender of man to the wrath of the elements.

Tim was fascinated by the terrible splendor of the scene, and he banked the Lark gracefully as Ralph took picture after picture of the great flood. To the south Tim sighted a cluster of buildings marooned in the center of the raging stream. He turned the plane and sped toward them. In another minute he recognized the village of Auburn, the scene of his first exploit as a flying reporter. The once peaceful hamlet, which, he remembered, had been on the right bank of the Cedar, was surrounded by the rampant waters. While Tim circled the village, Ralph managed to secure two graphic pictures of the marooned village.

Tim could see a little group gathered in front of the general store and once he thought they were gesturing to him, but he dared not go closer. Motor trouble at any lower altitude would mean a plunge into the flood.

A few minutes before noon Tim dropped the crimson-winged Lark down out of the clouds and skidded over the muddy field. He uncurled his legs and got stiffly out of the cockpit. Ralph hopped down beside him, his camera under his arm.

They left orders for mechanics at the field to take care of the plane and then headed toward the city in the car they had left at the field.

“That’s some flood,” said Ralph as they sped toward the office. “I didn’t think there was so much water in the whole world.”

Tim was preoccupied and his words were slow in coming.

“I’m wondering how things are at Auburn,” said he. “With communication cut off, they might be in bad shape. Wish we could have gone lower but I didn’t dare, and we had to get your plates back as soon as possible.”

When they entered the editorial office, the managing editor was waiting for them.

“Get ’em?” he demanded.

“You bet,” said Ralph, “some dandies,” and he laid his camera with its graphic record of the flood, on the managing editor’s desk.

Carson hurriedly made out a rush order for the engraving room and sent a copy boy scurrying away with the camera. In less than an hour they would appear on the front page of the noonday extra, a real scoop over every other paper in town.

When Tim and Ralph went out for lunch, the sky was overcast again with hurrying rain clouds and the city was shrouded in a pall of low-lying clouds and heavy smoke. They were gone not more than half an hour but when they returned Carson beckoned at them, one ear glued to a telephone receiver. He was writing rapidly, occasionally asking a tense question. When he had finished he turned to Tim.

“This is bad, Tim,” said the managing editor. “That little town of Auburn that you flew over this morning had been isolated for four days now. They’re getting low on food and typhoid has broken out in the village. There isn’t a boat left in the village and even if trucks could get near there with boats, the river is so churned up they wouldn’t be able to get out to the village. I’ve just talked to the owner of the general store at Auburn. He’d taken to a barn door and trusted to luck that the current would take him ashore. He got through safely and called us from Applington. They’re appealing to us to do something.”

“Get me the food and serum they need and I’ll drop it to them in less than two hours,” replied Tim rising to the challenge in the managing editor’s eyes.