The Sky Trail

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.