  The enlarged edition of the Herald attracted so much comment and praise from the readers that Tom and Helen felt well repaid for their additional efforts. Tom sat down and figured out the profit, deducted all expenses, and announced that they had made $78 on the edition, which, they agreed, was a figure they should strive to reach each week. “If we can keep that up,” commented Tom, “we’ll be sitting on top of the world.” “But if we were only an official county paper we’d have the moon, too,” Helen said. They discussed the pros and cons of getting enough additional circulation to beat the Auburn Advocate and the danger of arousing the anger of Burr Atwell, its publisher. “We don’t need to make a big campaign for subscriptions,” argued Helen. “We’ve taken the biggest step right now—improving and expanding the amount of local and country reading matter. Whenever I have an extra afternoon this summer I’ll drive out in the country and see if I can’t get some people who haven’t been subscribers to take our paper.” Tom agreed with Helen’s suggestion and that very afternoon they took the old family touring car, filled it with gas and oil, and ambled through the countryside. Tom had a list of farmers who were non-subscribers and before the afternoon was over they had added half a dozen new names to the Herald’s circulation list. In addition, they had obtained at least one item of farm news at every place they stopped. “I call that a good afternoon’s work,” Helen commented when they drove the ancient flivver into the garage at home. “Not bad at all,” Tom agreed. “Only, we’ll keep quiet about our circulation activities. No use to stir up Burr Atwell until he finds it out for himself, which will be soon enough.” The remaining weeks of June passed uneventfully. The days were bright and warm with the softness of early summer and the countryside was green with a richness that only the middle west knows. Helen devoted the first part of each week to getting news in Rolfe and on Fridays and Saturdays took the old car and rambled through the countryside, stopping at farmhouses to make new friends for the Herald and gather news for the farm page. The revenue of the paper was increasing rapidly and they rejoiced at the encouraging news which was coming from their father. The Fourth of July that year came on Saturday, which meant a two day celebration for Rolfe and the summer resorts on Lake Dubar. Special trains would be routed in over the railroad and the boats on the lake would do a rushing business. The managers of Crescent Beach and Sandy Point planned big programs for their resorts and ordered full page bills to be distributed throughout that section of the state. The county seat papers had usually obtained these large job printing orders but by carefully figuring, Tom put in the lowest bids. Kirk Foster, the manager of Crescent Beach, ordered five thousand posters while Art Provost, the owner of Sandy Point, ordered twenty thousand. Crescent Beach catered to a smaller and more exclusive type of summer visitors while Sandy Point welcomed everyone to its large and hospitable beach. There was not much composition for the posters but the printing required hours and it seemed to Helen that the old press rattled continuously for the better part of three days as Tom fed sheet after sheet of paper into the ancient machine. The wonder of it was that they had no breakdowns and the bills were printed and delivered on time. “All of which means,” said Tom when he had finished, “that we’ve added a clear profit of $65 to our bank account.” “If we keep on at this rate,” Helen added, “we’ll have ample to take care of Dad when he needs more money.” “And he’ll be needing it sometime this fall,” Tom said slowly. “Gee whizz, but it sure does cost to be in one of those sanitariums. Lucky we could step in and take hold here for Dad.” “We owe him more than we’ll ever repay,” said Helen, “and the experience we’re getting now will be invaluable. We’re working hard but we find time to do the things we like.” Helen planned special stories for the edition just before the Fourth and visited the managers of both resorts to get their complete programs for the day. Kirk Foster at Crescent Beach explained that there would be nothing unusual there except the special display of night fireworks but Art Provost over at Sandy Point had engaged a line of free attractions that would rival any small circus. Besides the usual boating and bathing, there would be free acts by aerialists, a high dive by a girl into a small tank of water, half a dozen clowns to entertain the children, a free band concert both afternoon and evening, two ball games and in addition to the merry-go-round on the grounds there would be a ferris wheel and several other “thrill” rides brought in for the Fourth. “You ought to have a great crowd,” said Helen. “Goin’ to be mighty disappointed if I don’t,” said the old resort manager. “Plannin’ a regular rip-snorter of a day. No admission to the grounds, but Boy! it’ll cost by the time they leave.” “Going to double the prices of everything?” asked Helen. “Nope. Goin’ to have so many things for folks to do they’ll spend everything they got before they leave.” “In that case,” replied Helen, “I see where I stay at home. I’m a notorious spendthrift when it comes to celebrating the Fourth.” “I should say you’re not goin’ to stay home,” said Mr. Provost. “You and your mother and Tom are goin’ to be my guests. I’ve got your passes all filled out. Swim, ride in the boats, dance, roller skate, see the ball games, enjoy any of the ‘thrill rides’ you want to. Won’t cost you a cent.” “But I can’t accept them,” protested Helen. “We’ll pay if we come down. Besides, we didn’t give you all of those bills for nothing.” “Seemed mighty near nothin’ compared with the prices all the other printers in the county wanted,” smiled Mr. Provost. “You’ve been down every week writin’ items about the folks who come here and, believe me, I appreciate it. These passes are just a little return of the courtesy you’ve shown me this summer.” “When you put it that way, I can scarcely refuse them,” laughed Helen. “As a matter of fact,” she added, “I wanted them terribly for we honestly couldn’t afford to come otherwise.” When Helen returned to the office she told Tom about the passes and he agreed that acceptance of them would not place the Herald under obligation to the resort owner. “I always thought old man Provost a pretty good scout,” he said, “but I hardly expected him to do this. And say, these passes are good for both Saturday and Sunday. What a break!” “If we see everything Saturday we’ll be so tired we won’t want to go back Sunday,” Helen said. “Besides, Mother has some pretty strong ideas on Sunday celebrations.” The telephone rang and Helen hastened into the editorial office to answer. She talked rapidly for several minutes, jotting down notes on a pad of scratch paper. When she had finished, she hurried back into the composing room. “Tom,” she cried, “that was Mr. Provost calling.” “Did he cancel the passes?” “I should say not. He called to say he had just received a telegram from the Ace Flying Circus saying it would be at Sandy Point to do stunt flying and carry passengers for the Fourth of July celebration.” “Why so excited about that? We’ve had flying circuses here before.” “Yes, I know, Tom, but ‘Speed’ Rand is in charge of the Ace outfit this year.” “‘Speed’ Rand!” whistled Tom. “Well, I should say that was different. That’s news. Why Rand’s the man who flew from Tokyo to Seattle all alone. Other fellows had done it in teams but Rand is the only one to go solo. He’s big news in all of the dailies right now. Everyone is wondering what daredevil stunt he’ll do next.” “He’s very good looking and awfully rich,” smiled Helen. “Flies just for fun,” added Tom. “With all of the oil land he’s got he doesn’t have to worry about work. Tell you what, I’ll write to the Cranston Chronicle and see if they’ll send us a cut of Rand. It would look fine on the front page of this week’s issue.” “Oh,” exclaimed Helen “I almost forgot the most important part of Mr. Provost’s call. He wants you to get out 10,000 half page bills on the Ace Flying Circus. Here are the notes. He said for you to write the bill and run them off as soon as you can.” The order for the bills put Tom behind on his work with the paper and it was late Thursday afternoon before Helen started folding that week’s issue. But they didn’t mind being late. The bill order from Sandy Point had meant another piece of profitable job work and Mr. Provost had also taken a half page in the Herald to advertise the coming of his main attraction for the Fourth. Mrs. Blair came down to help with the folding and Margaret Stevens, just back from a vacation in the north woods with her father, arrived in time to lend a hand. “Nice trip?” Helen asked as she deftly folded the printed sheets. “Wonderful,” smiled Margaret, “but I’m glad to get back. I missed helping you and Tom. Honestly, I get a terrific thrill out of reporting.” “We’re glad to have you back,” replied Helen, “and I think Mr. Provost down at Sandy Point will be glad to give me an extra pass for the Fourth. I’ll tell him you’re our star reporter.” “I’d rather go to Crescent Beach for the Fourth,” said Margaret. “It’s newer and much more ritzy than Sandy Point.” “You’d better stop and look at the front page carefully,” warned Tom, who had shut off the press just in time to hear Margaret’s words. She stopped folding papers long enough to read the type under the two column picture on the front page. “What!” she exclaimed, “‘Speed’ Rand coming here?” “None other and none such,” laughed Tom. “Guaranteed to be the one and only ‘Speed’ Rand. Step right this way folks for your airplane tickets. Five dollars for five minutes. See the beauty of Lake Dubar from the air. Don’t crowd, please.” “Do you still want me to get a pass?” Helen asked. “It will be honored any place at Sandy Point during the celebration and Mr. Provost says we can all have rides with the air circus ‘Speed’ Rand is running.” “I should say I do want a pass,” said Margaret. “At least it’s some advantage to being a newspaper woman besides just the fun of it.” The famous Ace air circus of half a dozen planes roared over Rolfe just before sunset Friday night and the whole town turned out to see them and try to identify the plane which “Speed” Rand was flying. The air circus was flying in two sections, three fast, trim little biplanes that led the way, followed by three large cabin planes used for passenger carrying. Every ship was painted a brilliant scarlet and they looked like tongues of flames darting through the sky, the afternoon sun glinting on their wings. The air circus swung over Rolfe in a wide circle and the leading plane dropped down out of the sky, its motor roaring so loud the windows in the houses rattled in their frames. “He’s going to crash!” cried Margaret. “Nothing of the kind,” shouted Tom, who had read widely of planes and pilots and flying maneuvers. “That’s just a power dive—fancy flying.” Tom was right. When the scarlet biplane seemed headed for certain destruction the pilot pulled its nose up, levelled off, shot over Rolfe at dizzying speed and then climbed his craft back toward the fleecy, lazy white clouds. “That’s Rand,” announced Tom with a certainty that left no room for argument. “He’s always up to stunts like that.” “It must be awfully dangerous,” said Helen as she watched the plane, now a mere speck in the sky. “It is,” agreed Tom. “Everything depends on the motor in a dive like that. If it started to miss some editor would have to write that particular flyer’s obituary.” The morning of Saturday, the Fourth, dawned clear and bright. Small boys whose idea of fun was to arise at four o’clock and spend the next two hours throwing cannon crackers under windows had their usual good time and Tom and Helen, unable to sleep, were up at six o’clock. Half an hour later Margaret Stevens, also awakened by the almost continuous cannonading of firecrackers, came across the street. “Jim Preston is going to take us down the lake on his seven-thirty trip before the special trains and the big crowds start coming in,” said Tom. “But I’d like to see the trains come in,” protested Helen. “If we wait until then,” explained Tom, “we’ll be caught in the thick of the rush for the boats and we may never get to Sandy Point. We’d better take the seven-thirty boat.” From the hill on which the Blair home stood they looked down on the shore of Lake Dubar with its half dozen boat landings, each with two or three motorboats awaiting the arrival of the first special excursion train. Mrs. Blair called them to breakfast and they were getting up to go inside when Margaret’s exclamation drew their attention back to the lake. “Am I seeing things or is that the old Queen?” she asked, pointing down the lake. Tom and Helen looked in the direction she pointed. An old, double decked boat, smoke rolling from its lofty, twin funnels, was churning its way up the lake. “We may all be seeing things,” cried Tom, “but it looks like the Queen. I thought she had been condemned by the steamboat inspectors as unfit for further service.” “The news that ‘Speed’ Rand is going to be at Sandy Point is bringing hundreds more than the railroad expected,” said Helen. “I talked with the station agent last night and they have four specials scheduled in this morning and they usually only have two.” “If they vote the paved roads at the special election next week,” commented Tom, “the railroad will lose a lot of summer travel. As it is now, folks almost have to come by train for the slightest rain turns the roads around here into swamps and they can’t run the risk of being marooned here for several days.” The Queen puffed sedately toward shore. They heard the clang of bells in the engine room and the steady chouf-chouf of the exhaust cease. The smoke drifted lazily from the funnels. Bells clanged again and the paddle wheel at the stern went into the back motion, churning the water into white froth. The forward speed of the Queen was checked and the big double-decker nosed into its pier. “There’s old Capt. Billy Tucker sticking his white head out of the pilot house,” said Tom. “He’s probably put a few new planks in the Queen’s rotten old hull and gotten another O. K. from the boat inspectors. But if that old tub ever hits anything, the whole bottom will cave in and she’ll sink in five minutes.” “That’s not a very cheerful Fourth of July idea,” said Margaret. “Come on, let’s eat. Your mother called us hours ago.” They had finished breakfast and were leaving the table when Mrs. Blair spoke. “I’ve decided not to go down to Sandy Point with you,” she said. “The crowd will be so large I’m afraid I wouldn’t enjoy it very much.” “But we’ve planned on your going, Mother,” said Helen. “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” smiled her mother, “but Margaret’s mother and I will spend the day on the hill here. We’ll be able to see the aerial circus perform and really we’ll enjoy a quiet day here at home more than being in the crowd.” “It won’t be very quiet if those kids keep on shooting giant crackers,” said Tom. “They’ll be going to the celebration in another hour or two and then things will quiet down,” said Mrs. Blair. “How about a plane ride if the circus has time to take us?” asked Tom. Helen saw her mother tremble at Tom’s question, but she replied quickly. “That’s up to you, Tom. You know more about planes than I do and if you’re convinced the flying circus is safe, I have no objection.” But Helen made a mental reservation that the planes would have to look mighty safe before any of them went aloft. They hurried down the hill to the pier which Jim Preston used. The boatman and his helpers had just finished polishing the three speed boats Preston owned, the Argosy, the Liberty and the Flyer, which had been raised from the bottom of the lake and partially rebuilt. “All ready for the big day?” asked the genial boatman. “We’re shy a few hours sleep,” grinned Tom. “Those cannon crackers started about four o’clock but outside of that we’re all pepped up and ready to go.” “About three or four years ago,” reminded the boatman, “you used to be gallivantin’ around town with a pocketful of those big, red crackers at sun-up. Guess you can’t complain a whole lot now.” Tom admitted that he really couldn’t complain and they climbed into the Liberty. “I’m takin’ some last minute supplies down to the hotel at Sandy Point,” said the boatman, “so we won’t wait for anyone else.” He switched on the starter and the boat quivered as the powerful motor took hold. They were backing away from the pier when the pilot of one of the other boats shouted for them to stop. A boy was running down Main Street, waving a yellow envelope in his hand. Jim Preston nosed the Liberty back to the pier and the boy ran onto the dock. “Telegram for you,” he told Helen. “It’s a rush message and I just had to get it to you.” “Thanks a lot,” replied Helen. “Are there any charges?” “Nope. Message is prepaid.” Helen ripped open the envelope with nervous fingers. Who could be sending her a telegram? Was there anything wrong with her father? No, that couldn’t be it for her mother would have received the message. She unfolded the single sheet of yellow paper and read the telegraph operator’s bold scrawl. “To: Helen Blair, The Herald, Rolfe. Understand ‘Speed’ Rand is at Rolfe for two days. Have rumor his next flight will be an attempted non-stop refueling flight around the world. See Rand at once and try for confirmation of rumor. Telephone as soon as possible. McClintock, The AP.” Helen turned to Tom and Margaret. “I’m to interview ‘Speed’ Rand for the Associated Press,” she exclaimed. “Let’s go!” |
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