Gray clouds of winter hung over the city as the noon edition of the Atkinson News roared off the press.

Tim Murphy, famous young flying reporter and aviation editor of the News, pecked away half-heartedly at his typewriter trying to write a story about a minor automobile accident that had happened a few minutes before in front of the News building.

The raw, damp weather and the lead-colored sky had a depressing effect on Tim. He felt earthbound, restless, and he longed to soar through the clouds in the Good News, the trim, fast biplane owned by the paper.

“What are you looking so gloomy about?” asked Ralph Graves, who had been Tim’s flying companion on many an aerial adventure.

“This weather is enough to give anyone a grouch,” replied Tim. “Here it is, almost spring, and we have to get a week of sloppy weather that spoils all our plans. That job of overhauling the Good News and installing the new motor will be done today but it won’t do us any good. With weather like this we won’t get any flying assignments.”

“I know just how you feel,” sympathized Ralph, “Ive been out chasing the fire trucks on a couple of chimney fires and I’ve slopped through all the mud and slush I’m going to for one day. Gosh! But I’d like to hop over a few clouds in the Good News.”

The telephone on Tim’s desk rang and he turned to answer. He was smiling when he swung back and faced Ralph.

“Dash off your copy,” he said. “Carl Hunter, the manager at the airport, just phoned that the Good News is ready for a test flight. If we cut lunch this noon we’ll have time for a short hop. What say?”

“Don’t ask foolish questions,” grinned Ralph. He hurried to his typewriter where his fingers were soon beating a tattoo on flying keys as he wrote the story of the fires.

Ralph finished his story, turned it in at the copy desk, and was on his way to rejoin Tim when a deep rumble shook the building.

“Earthquake!” shouted one of the copy boys as he dove under a desk.

The windows rattled in their frames and the entire building shook as the terrific noise continued. Then a great pall of black smoke could be seen mounting skyward. The building ceased its trembling, the copy boy scrambled out from under the desk and the telephones voiced their sharp cries.

Tim was the first to answer. From his attitude others in the news room sensed some major disaster. The managing editor, George Carson, human dynamo of the paper, ran to Tim’s desk and leaned close to the receiver. He could hear the words which were being shouted into the transmitter at the other end of the line.

The managing editor turned to Ralph.

“Run to the composing room,” he cried. “Tell them to stand by for an extra. The storage tanks on the Midwest Oil Company property west of town have caught fire and are exploding.”

Ralph waited to hear no more, but ran to the composing room where he gave the managing editor’s message to the foreman. Then he hurried back to the editorial office.

Tim was scribbling a bulletin for the extra with one hand while he listened to the first report of the explosion.

Five or six men were missing. They might have been caught in the first blast or perhaps they had escaped and were too excited to report their safety.

The managing editor took the story as fast as Tim could write it, wrote a new banner line for the front page, and rushed the copy to the composing room.

“Who’s talking?” he asked.

“One of the mechanics from the airport,” said Tim. “The storage tanks are only a mile and a half from the field and he saw the first one let go. A man from the oil company is at the field now and they are getting the story from him.”

“Is the Good News in condition to fly?” asked the managing editor.

“Just got word a few minutes ago she was ready to test,” replied Tim.

“Is it safe to go up on a picture assignment for photos of those burning oil tanks?”

“If you’ll pay for all the paint I scorch off the plane,” said Tim.

“We’ll pay for it,” cried Carson. “Take Ralph with you and get all the pictures you can. We’ll want them for the city final. And whatever you do, don’t let your motor cut out when you’re over those burning tanks.”

“If it does you’ll have to look for two new reporters,” chuckled Ralph.

Tim turned the telephone over to another reporter and they stopped only long enough to get a camera and make sure that it had a plentiful supply of plates.

The editorial office was in an uproar. Carson was shouting orders at everyone who came within hearing distance; reporters were running from the room, starting for the scene of the explosion; others were hastening to hospitals where injured might have been taken and one was delving into the files to compare the present disaster with fires of other years.

A heavy pall of oily, black smoke blanketed the city and some streets were so dark the street lights had been turned on.

Tim and Ralph ran to the nearby garage where the cars used by News Reporters were stored. They took the first machine available, a light, speedy roadster. Tim climbed behind the wheel and they shot out of the garage. Traffic down town was in a tangled jam that would take an hour to clear for the rumbling explosions from the oil tanks had alarmed the entire city. Many people, believing that the city was about to fall on their heads, had hurried to their cars in an attempt to flee to the open country. Now they were just as anxious to return to their homes.

By sliding through alleys, Tim managed to get to a fairly clear boulevard that led to the airport. A light breeze had started to clear the smoke from the air and Tim stepped on the accelerator. The indicator on the speedometer climbed steadily—forty, forty-five and fifty miles an hour.

“Look out,” cried Ralph, “Or we’ll be picked up for speeding.”

“No chance,” replied Tim. “All the police are at the fire. We’ve got to make time if we want good pictures.”

Tim and Ralph were supremely happy as they sped toward the airport. They were going into the clouds again—into the clouds in quest of the news and the pictures. Barely a year before the News had purchased an airplane and Tim had been assigned the duties of flying reporter. Ralph had been selected to help and Tim had trained his friend as a flyer. Together they had uncovered some of the biggest stories of the year for the News and their exploits had become exceedingly popular with the people of Atkinson.

In their first year of following the sky trails they had flown across the top of the world to prove that the ice and snow of the Arctic did not cover a hitherto unknown continent; Tim had flown down into Old Mexico and secured exclusive photographs of a rebel leader; and together they had brought about the death of the Sky Hawk, a former German war ace who had preyed on the air lines of the middle west.

Now they were off on a new adventure and their hearts beat faster as they neared the airport.

To their right great billows of smoke mounted skyward from the burning storage tanks and occasionally tongues of flame could be seen as the fire made some new conquest.

The airport was just beyond the city limits and its administration building and hangars flanked the boulevard. Tim spun the roadster through the gate and stopped beside hanger No. 5.

The broad doors of the hangar had been rolled open and the Good News, its nose pointed toward the field, was waiting for them.

The metal propeller was turning slowly as the engine idled. The fuselage had been painted a brilliant crimson with the wings a contrast in silver grey.

Carl Hunter, quiet, efficient manager of the field, was waiting for them.

“How does the new engine sound?” asked Tim.

“Mighty sweet,” replied Hunter. “I haven’t had her up for I knew you would want the first flight. However, I gave her a thorough test on the blocks and she never missed a stroke. Boy, you’ve got some plane with that new 250 horsepower radial motor. You’ll do 200 miles an hour and have plenty of power to spare.”

They hastened to the plane where Tim and Ralph made a quick but thorough inspection. The biplane had been overhauled and re-rigged during the winter with a new, more powerful motor. The Good News would be fifty miles an hour faster.

The flying reporters climbed into their cockpits. Ralph, who was to handle the camera, took the forward cockpit and Tim handled the controls in the rear one.

Tim opened the throttle and listened attentively as he ran the motor up and down the scale. There was never a second’s hesitation.

Hunter came close and shouted in Tim’s ear.

“Don’t get too close to the fire,” he cried. “The heat will raise the dickens with the air and it will be pretty rocky.”

Tim nodded and motioned for the blocks to be cleared away.

The Good News rolled easily out of the hangar, flipped its tail saucily at the few mechanics left at the field, and roared over the soggy ground and into the air.

Tim thrilled to the touch of the controls and the Good News answered even to the slightest movement of the stick.

The new motor settled to its work in a manner that warmed Tim’s heart. He felt that he had reserve power for any emergency as he swung the biplane around and headed for the burning oil tanks.

Tim put the Good News in a steady climb and they gained altitude rapidly. At 1,200 feet he levelled off and Ralph got busy with the camera.

The oil storage lot, a large tract of level land, was dotted with a dozen large tanks. Five of the tanks had caught fire and exploded, the force of the explosion knocking off the steel tops. These tops, like great black pancakes, had been blown clear of the tract. One of them had hurtled down to crush the roof of the house nearest the fire.

The walls of two of the tanks had given way and Tim and Ralph could see the firemen fighting desperately to stop the spread of the flames. Safety trenches had been a part of the protective system at the tank farm, but some of them had been weakened by the explosion and the flaming gasoline was finding the vulnerable spots.

Tim swung the Good News over the blazing storage tanks and even 1,200 feet in the air they could feel the heat. The plane danced crazily and Ralph, who had been leaning far out, clutched the side of the plane and shook his fist at Tim.

The flying reporter snapped off the throttle and they glided down on a gentle incline, as the propeller turned slowly.

“Got enough pictures?” yelled Tim.

“Three more plates left,” shouted Ralph. “Let’s go down where I can get some close ups. Make a run for the fire at about four hundred feet; then zoom up just before we get there. That will give us some real pictures.”

“Also scorch all the new paint off the ship,” protested Tim.

“Carson said he’d pay for a new coat,” Ralph reminded him and Tim nodded and snapped on the switches again. The motor roared into action and they shot down out of the murky sky.

At four hundred feet Tim pulled back on the stick and the Good News levelled off. They were a mile west of the burning tank farm when he banked sharply and swung back toward the city.

The clouds of smoke, rolling upward, were streaked with vivid flashes of flame. Tim chilled as he thought of the fate that would be theirs if their plane failed to respond to the controls. He forced the thought from his mind and took a fresh grip on the stick.

Ralph glanced back and smiled. Tim motioned to his own safety belt and directed Ralph to strap himself into the plane. No telling what might happen in the next smoky-flame seared seconds.

Tim pushed the Good News into several tight banks while Ralph strapped himself into the plane. Then they were ready for their picture making dash.

Ralph trained his camera and glued his eyes to the sight. It would be a great action picture, awe inspiring in its power, if they could get it.

Tim, one hand on the stick and the other on the throttle, watched his air speed. It was increasing rapidly. Half a mile from the burning tanks they were going one hundred and fifty miles an hour. A quarter of a mile away and their speed had increased to one hundred and seventy-five. Then there was no more time to check the air speed. They were going fast enough and Tim knew his motor had plenty of reserve power for any emergency.

Ralph, in the forward cockpit, was busy with his camera. Two exposures of the rolling, mass of smoke and flame were made in the split seconds before Tim threw the Good News into a steep zoom.

The towering pillar of smoke was less than five hundred feet ahead of their propeller when Tim put the pressure on the stick. The nose shot skyward and the Good News danced upward along the outer rim of smoke.

Ralph was ready for the final exposure when a terrific explosion and a wave of rag flame and heat tore the heavens asunder. The Good News leaped upward, bucking like a wild horse. Tim, his eyebrows singed and lungs burning from the scorching heat, fought the controls.

Up, up, up pitched the Good News, tossing wildly on the edge of the inferno of flame and smoke. The noise of the explosion had deadened their ears and neither Ralph nor Tim could hear the laboring of the motor as Tim gave it full throttle.

The new paint on the wings and fuselage curled and darkened in the heat and for a second Tim thought the gasoline tank might explode.

Then above it all came the sound of a second explosion and the Good News stood up on its tail. Tim was thankful that they had used their safety belts for he was almost thrown from the cockpit.

Out of the smoke hurtled a great piece of steel. Tim heard Ralph scream a warning but he was powerless. The Good News was out of control.

Fascinated by the sight of the great projectile which was approaching them with terrifying speed, Tim lived an eternity. Actually it might have been a second, probably it was less.

The Good News, falling tail downward, missed the deadly piece of steel by less than two feet.

They were past one danger only to be confronted with another even more horrible to contemplate than the one they had just escaped. Ralph, his eyes burning in his smoke-blackened face, was looking back at Tim, trusting that the young flyer would be able to pull the Good News out of the tailspin.

With a last despairing effort Tim crashed his fist against the throttle. It leaped ahead a good inch. It had jammed in the emergency and he had not noticed it. More fuel flooded into the laboring cylinders and the motor, its full power unlashed, lifted them almost vertically into the sky.

When they were out of danger and in the cool, clean air, Tim brought the nose of the plane down and they headed for the airport.

The Good News looked to be ready to take first prize at a fire sale. The entire ship was grimy from the heavy oil smoke and the dope on the wings and fuselage was curled and cracked from the terrific heat.

Tim nosed down over the airport and idled his motor as they skimmed to a perfect three point landing and rolled to a stop in front of their hangar.

Carl Hunter ran to their plane.

“You crazy news hounds,” he cried. “I thought you were goners when those explosions caught you. How did you ever get out alive?”

“We’ll thank the new motor for saving our necks,” replied Tim. “We were in trouble, believe me. The throttle stuck and the engine wasn’t getting all the gas. In a moment of desperation I smashed the throttle with my fist and opened it. A second later and we were climbing to safety.”

“Good thing you made me strap myself in,” grinned Ralph, “Or you would have lost your passenger when we took that wild west ride.”

“We were mighty lucky to get back,” said Tim. “Next time we cover a fire on an oil tank farm we’ll know enough to stay at a safe distance.”

“But think of the great action pictures we’ve got,” said Ralph.

“I’m thinking of my own neck right now,” replied Tim. “When the second explosion came and that piece of steel picked us out for a target I just said good-bye to everything. While we’re passing around the thanks for getting out alive we’ll have to include old lady gravity. The Good News was dropping earthward just fast enough for us to escape.”

“We’d better get these pictures to the office so they can use them in the final,” said Ralph.

“You take the camera and the car and go on,” said Tim. “I won’t be needed at the office for a while and I want to check over the plane and see if it suffered any serious damage. Tell Carson he’ll have to okay an order for another coat of paint.”

“I’ll wait and see how the pictures come out before I tell him,” chuckled Ralph as he got in the roadster and started for the office.

Tim and Hunter went over the Good News carefully, checking every joint and strut. Then they gave the motor a thorough test. It was sweet and true.

“A real plane,” was the field manager’s comment when they had completed their inspection. “After a test like the one to-day you can count on it carrying you through anything short of a hurricane.”

“I’m not so sure it wouldn’t do that,” said Tim.

“We’d better fill up the gasoline tank,” he added. “Never can tell when we may get an assignment that will call for another quick getaway.”

They refueled the ship and were rolling it back into the hangar when a car skidded through the gate. The managing editor and Ralph were in the machine and from their haste Tim knew that he would soon be in the clouds again on the trail of another big story.