Tim and Ralph left the colonel and started for the Good News. On their way they passed over a small, level piece of ground. Two strange looking marks, about six feet apart and from thirty to forty feet long, attracted Tim’s attention and he stopped to examine them.

“Trying to read 'footprints in the sands of time’?” asked Ralph.

“Not exactly footprints,” grinned Tim, “but these marks didn’t just get here. Someone made them and I’d like to know what for.”

“They look like those made by airplane landing wheels,” suggested Ralph, “but a plane couldn’t land or take off in this short a space.”

Tim studied the marks carefully and then proceeded toward the Good News without making any further comment on his discovery.

The flying reporters swung their plane around and Ralph unblocked the wheels while Tim warmed up the motor. Then they sped away toward Atkinson, leaving the charred and blackened remains of the timber behind them.

When they landed at their home field, the managing editor was waiting for them.

“What’s this about an attempt at a million dollar robbery?” he demanded.

Tim and Ralph looked at each other blankly. They had not dreamed that the news might have preceded them for they thought the railroad people and the state police were trying to keep it under cover.

“How did you find out about it?” asked Ralph.

“A little birdie flew in and whispered in my ear,” grinned the managing editor.

“The rumor is correct,” admitted Tim. “Some gang set a patch of timber on fire last night in an attempt to stop the mail and get away with that shipment of money to the west coast. The only thing that averted the holdup was the quick action of the engineer in deciding to run through the fire and his speed in reversing his train and backing up a mile to make a run for it.”

“It must have been a thrill riding in the cab when you shot through the flame and smoke,” said Carson.

“Almost too much of a thrill,” conceded Tim. “The fireman fell out of the cab and broke a leg. I finished firing on the run into Vinton and this morning they found the fireman lying along the right-of-way. He was suffering from shock. Lucky thing for him the fire didn’t spread.”

“Then you’ve plenty of material for a corking good yarn,” exclaimed Carson. “Hop in the car and we’ll head for the office.”

Tim and Ralph told everything that had taken place and the managing editor became more enthused as their story progressed.

“You think it may be some members of the old Sky Hawk gang?” he asked.

“I’ve got a hunch that it is,” said Tim.

“That will make a fine angle to bring into the story,” said Carson.

“If I mention that we suspect any of the old gang, it will queer our chances of getting them,” said Tim. “I’ll write you a story every reader of the paper will find interesting but I don’t want to give away whom we suspect. Those oil cans back there may have some fingerprints on them that will prove valuable clues.”

The managing editor finally agreed to Tim’s wishes and when they reached the News building Tim and Ralph went to their typewriters and started writing their stories.

Tim wrote the main story of the attempt to rob the train, making it vivid with glowing descriptions of the train’s race through the flaming timber.

Ralph wrote the story of the investigation and then Tim dashed off a column about the fireman who, his leg broken, had laid along the right-of-way with the flames threatening to bring his death.

Both young reporters were alive to the excitement of the hour and they breathed their own interest into their stories. As a result the copy they placed on the managing editor’s desk was brilliant, readable material of the kind that would make any managing editor’s heart warm.

Carson read the stories with a quick eye, pencil poised to mark out errors. But he found none and when he had finished he leaned back in his swivel chair and smiled at Tim and Ralph.

“Another piece of fine work,” he said. “Believe me, you boys can write.”

“Stories like those don’t have to be written,” said Tim. “They write themselves.”

Carson glanced at the clock. It was almost noon.

“Better get some lunch if you’re going to fly the fingerprint expert back to the scene of the attempted robbery,” he said.

“We won’t have time to eat,” said Ralph.

“You’ll take time,” ordered the managing editor. “After all the energy and brain power you’ve used in writing these stories you need to give your bodies food.”

“Now this is an assignment. Go down to the Red Mill and order the biggest steaks they have in the house. Take at least forty-five minutes for your lunch and forget to pay the check as you leave. They’ll put it on my account. Mind now, I want you to relax. Your minds will work much better after you’ve had something to eat.”

The boys promised they would obey the managing editor’s instructions and went to the Red Mill where they discussed the events of the preceding hours over thick, juicy steaks.

When the flying reporters returned to the airport, a thin, bespectacled young man who carried a black brief case under one arm was waiting for them.

“I’m Charlie Collins, fingerprint man for the state police,” he told them.

The flying reporters introduced themselves and then turned to the manager of the airport, who was standing nearby.

“Plane all ready to go?” asked Tim.

“Everything O. K.,” replied Hunter, “And the sky’s clear all the way. There’s a tail wind that will help all the way.”

“Faster the better,” grinned Tim.

“How fast will you travel?” asked the fingerprint expert nervously.

“Oh, about two hundred,” replied Tim.

“Two hundred miles an hour!”

“Sure,” said Tim. “We can even do a little better than that if you’re in such a hurry to get down there.”

“I’m in a hurry all right,” said Collins, “but not 'two hundred miles an hour’ in a hurry. I’ve never been up before.”

“You’ll like it,” said Ralph. “Greatest thrill you’ll ever have.”

“Will it bump and jump around badly?” asked the fingerprint expert.

“Rides smoother than a Pullman on a day like this,” promised Tim.

“Well, since Colonel Searle ordered me to come down with you, I’ll have to go,” concluded Collins, “But I’d much rather make the trip by auto or by train.”

“You’ll like it once you’re up,” said Tim as he helped the suspicious one into the forward cockpit. Ralph buckled the safety belt on their passenger and then fastened his own.

Tim flipped the wings, waggled the stick, and they roared off the field.

When the wheels left the ground, the fingerprint expert let out a shriek that even Tim could hear above the motor but as soon as they were in the air, Collins’ nerves settled and he started to enjoy his ride.

Tim shoved the throttle well ahead and their air speed climbed to one hundred eighty miles an hour. There were plenty of clouds in the sky but there was a ceiling of three thousand feet and Tim sent the Good News dancing along.

Almost before they knew it they were circling down to land in the field they had used earlier in the day.

Colonel Searle was waiting to greet them and he gave Charlie Collins a hand down from the forward cockpit.

“How did you like the ride?” Tim asked the fingerprint expert.

“I was scared stiff at the start,” admitted Collins, “but after we were off the ground I enjoyed every minute of it.”

“Thought you would,” smiled Tim.

They staked down the Good News and then hurried across the railroad tracks and on to the old creek bed where they had found the empty oil containers.

Collins took charge of the investigation and Tim and Ralph sat down to watch him work. The fingerprint expert moved slowly and carefully, fearful lest he might blot out some print that would be valuable.

Every tin was examined and the fingerprints recorded and filed for comparison with the records at the headquarters of the state police.

“Anything that looks familiar?” asked Colonel Searle when Collins had finished his task.

“Can’t be sure,” replied the expert. “Some of them look like prints by the Sky Hawk’s old crowd. I won’t know for sure until I can get back to the records in the office.”

Tim and Ralph looked at each other significantly. Here was another mention of the Sky Hawk. The trail was getting warmer.

The railroad men had completed the work of repairing the right-of-way where it had been damaged by the fire, and trains, delayed for hours, were on their way once more. Transcontinental limiteds and long strings of refrigerator cars were wheeling down the steel as fast as their engineers could roll them.

Colonel Searle decided to ride back to Vinton on one of the trains and requested Tim and Ralph to take Collins to Atkinson with them. This the flying reporters agreed to do and in less than ten minutes they were winging their way homeward, passing train after train which seemed to be little more than crawling along the twin ribbons of steel.

When they slid down out of the sky to a perfect three point the sun was far down in the west. Less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since Tim had climbed into the cab of the midnight mail at the union station but many things had happened in those few hours and more portended.

A car was waiting at the field to whisk the fingerprint expert away, but before Collins left he promised to telephone the News office whatever secrets the fingerprints might unfold.

Tim and Ralph helped the mechanics wheel their plane into the hangar and then started for the city. They had dinner and then went to the News office to await whatever word there might be from the fingerprint expert.

The building was deserted except for a scrub-woman who was busy swishing her mop around the desks in the business office on the main floor.

Tim and Ralph walked up to the editorial office and switched on the lights over their desks. The telephones, which kept up an almost incessant clamor during the daytime, were silent, sulking on the desks. The electric printers which brought in the news of the world in never ending sheets of copy paper slept beneath their steel hoods. It was strange how quiet the plant could be at night. With the setting of the sun its life seemed to drain away, only to return again with the sunrise.

Tim worked on his aviation column for the next day while Ralph wrote a feature on the speed with which the railroad crews had repaired the right-of-way damaged by the fire.

It was mid-evening before the telephone on Tim’s desk rang. The summons were imperative.

Tim took the receiver off the hook and his hand shook. Ralph stopped work and came over to lean over his shoulder.

The call was from the headquarters of the state police. It was Collins, the fingerprint expert, speaking.