The fleet, powerful Jupiter soon outdistanced the slower amphibian and with Ralph at the controls, they sped toward Atkinson at 150 miles an hour. The roar of the motor was too loud for conversation and Tim settled down in the cushioned seat and reviewed the exciting events of the last 72 hours.

They ranged all the way from the thrilling chase after Ace McDowell to the deadly game of hide and seek they had just completed with Jack Sladek and his companions aboard the amphibian.

The big thing now was the fact that he had been invited to go with Grenville Ford on the quest for the sunken treasure in the Southern Queen. Tim, worn by the strain of the last few hours, closed his eyes as he contemplated the story possibilities of the treasure hunt.

That there would be plenty of adventure went without saying. From the one encounter with Sladek he knew that the soldier of fortune would go to any length to obtain the treasure.

The thought of making the trip into the Caribbean in a submarine appealed strongly to Tim. What a contrast it would be after his stirring adventures in the air as the flying reporter for the News.

Tim glanced at his companion. Grenville Ford appeared to be enjoying every minute of the flight back to Atkinson. There was a pleasant upturn to his lips and the chin, although square cut, was kindly. But the cheery light in Ford’s eyes was what appealed to Tim most for he felt that one of the best ways to judge a man’s character was by his eyes. Ford’s were piercing but they were steady and a perpetual laugh lurked in their depths. Tim sensed that he would make an excellent leader, a man in whom utmost trust could be placed and he knew he would have no hesitancy in following Ford on the trip.

The Jupiter flashed over the outskirts of Atkinson and Ralph cut the throttle. They dropped down to an easy landing and rolled up on the ramp in front of the hangar.

Tim, now a trifle stiff from the strenuous events and the night in the valley of the Cedar, climbed slowly from the cockpit. Ford followed.

Ralph scrambled out from the rear cockpit and joined them. He was grinning broadly.

“Guess I managed to get in for a little of the fun in the valley,” he chuckled. “When I dropped down on that amphib the first time I thought those boys were going to have heart failure.”

“What kind of a gun did you have?” asked Tim.

Ralph reached into the cockpit and brought out an ancient double barreled shotgun.

“Here’s the pet. Believe me I’ve got a sore shoulder. This old blunderbuss bucks like a Missouri mule.”

“Do you make a practice of carrying an arsenal around with you?” asked Ford.

“Hardly. When I heard the drone of the amphibian down the river I figured something was up for I knew you fellows must be on your way back. I borrowed this relic from the storekeeper at Auburn and got into the air as soon as I could.”

“You were just in time,” said Tim. “The amphibian was down on the surface of the river and all set to taxi along and give us a nice, cheerful little party.”

“What I want to know now,” put in Ralph, “is about the story.”

Tim glanced toward Ford. He felt it was up to the other to say the first word on that subject.

“I think we’d better go uptown and talk with your managing editor,” said Ford. “He’ll have to decide just what is to be printed now. Is that agreeable to everyone?”

There were no objections and they left the Jupiter for a ground crew to roll into the hangar. Signalling a taxi, they were soon speeding into the heart of the city.

It was ten-thirty. The first mail edition would be on the press then. Another hour and the deadline for the noon mail, which also had a big street sale. They’d have to work fast if they got the story of Grenville Ford’s plans for the treasure hunt into the noon edition. It would depend on how long they talked with the managing editor. Tim had the facts on his finger tips. Once at a typewriter he knew he could spin the story in rapid-fire order.

George Carson was in the editorial office when they entered.

“Did you get the story?” he asked Tim anxiously.

“I’ve got the man,” replied Tim, introducing Ford. “It’s going to be up to you on how much of a story develops out of our trip to Cedar valley.”

“Come into my office. We’ll discuss it at once.”

In the managing editor’s office Ford sat down in a chair across the desk from Carson. Tim and Ralph, more restless and anxious to get at the actual writing of the story, stood up.

“I’ll be brief,” said Ford. “In the first place, let me say that you have two unusually resourceful reporters in Murphy and Graves.”

“There’s none better,” admitted Carson, smiling.

“I’m going on a hunt for the treasure in the old tramp steamer, Southern Queen,” went on Ford. “The vessel disappeared eleven years ago in the Caribbean with an unknown amount of gold in its hold. I actually don’t know how much but it is sufficient to make an expensive expedition in search of the treasure very much worthwhile and I’m leaving New York as soon as possible. I want Tim Murphy to go with me. In return, I’ll give you exclusive rights to the stories of the treasure hunt. What do you think about it?”

“Just this,” snapped Carson. “Tim has a leave of absence, starting right now, with full pay to be with you as long as necessary. I want the first exclusive story on your adventures in the Cedar river valley.”

“I was afraid of that,” smiled Ford, “but I guess that can’t be helped. You see, Jack Sladek, one of the rebels who looted the gold mines in Guato, is on the same quest I am. He almost got Tim and me this morning. If it hadn’t been for Ralph and a borrowed double-barreled shotgun we might now be among the missing.”

“What a story, what a story!” enthused Carson. “We won’t need to name Sladek if that will prove too embarrassing for you. We can call it a mysterious attack from the air.”

“I think that would be better,” agreed Ford. “Sladek has voted himself in this thing to the finish but now that I know he’s after the gold, I’ll be on guard and able to take care of myself.”

“When will you want Tim to leave?” asked the managing editor.

“I’ll phone for reservations on the late afternoon plane east,” said Ford. “Is that too soon for you, Tim?”

“I can be ready within an hour after I finish my story,” replied the flying reporter.

“Then get into the news room and get busy,” said the managing editor, glancing at the clock on his desk. “It’s just ten-fifty now. I’ll instruct the press room that the noon edition may be down ten minutes late and to get ready to rush it through. That will give you about fifty minutes to write your story. Think you can make it?”

“I’ll get the most important part done by then,” promised Tim. “After the noon edition I can polish up the story and round out the details.”

“Go to it. And Ralph, you write a first person story about your flight this morning. Put plenty of punch and get the smell of powder into it. We’re going to have a smash front page this noon.”

Almost forgetting his visitor, Carson hurried after his reporters, stopping at the city desk to inform Ed Campbell of the big stories that were coming up, then dashing back to phone the press room to be ready for a rush edition.

Tim stripped off his coat, flung it over the back of his chair, rolled a sheet of copypaper into his typewriter, and plunged headlong into the story. Swiftly, graphically he painted the picture of the treasure hunt in the Caribbean with an unknown fortune in gold at stake, informing the readers of the News that they would have the first information on the progress of the expedition.

At his desk across the aisle Ralph was beating a frantic tattoo on his typewriter, describing in detail how he had routed the “unknown” plane in the Cedar river valley.

Page after page of copy spun from their machines and was hurried to the copy desk where Dan Watkins personally supervised the editing of the story.

“Much more to come?” Dan asked Tim. It was eleven-thirty.

“One more page,” replied Tim, without looking up from his machine.

Ralph finished his story with a bang of typewriter keys and straightened up. It had been a terrific strain working against time.

Tim’s fingers still raced as the words of the story flowed out. The deadline was past, yet they were holding the presses just for his story. Everything else was ready. The last of Ralph’s copy was coming off the linotypes out in the composing room. Make-up men, stereotypers and pressmen were all waiting for the final period on his story. Scores of newsboys were impatiently banging their heels down in the big circulation room listening for the roar of the presses which would signal that the noon edition was ready.

Perspiration stood out in beads on Tim’s forehead. There was so much to write and yet so little time in which to do it. He tore off each paragraph now, speeding it to the waiting linotypes.

Dan Watkins bent over him again.

“Only a minute left,” he said softly.

Tim nodded. He could write another column. That would have to come later when he polished up the story for the city edition. In a last, breathless paragraph he finished his story.

The copyreader almost tore it from his hands and ran toward the composing room. The story was done. It was eleven forty on the tick. Tim relaxed in his chair.

Ed Campbell stepped over.

“Great piece of writing,” said the city editor. “When do you leave?”

“This afternoon on the plane east,” replied Tim.

“We’ll miss you a lot,” went on Campbell, “but I know you’ll be sending us some swell yarns.”

“I’ll do my best,” promised Tim.