The Flying Reporter

Jimmy Donnelly had just arrived at the hangar at the Long Island flying field where his plane was housed. To be sure, the plane really wasn’t Jimmy’s, because it belonged to the New York Morning Press; but Jimmy was its pilot, and had flown it ever since that great newspaper had decided that it must have a plane of its own. And Jimmy had piloted it so long, and had taken such loving care of it, that he felt as though it were his very own. Indeed, he could not have lavished more attention on the plane if it had been his own. He was forever polishing and cleaning it, and checking over the engine, and keeping it tuned up to concert pitch.

But just now Jimmy was not thinking about his plane. The morning mail lay before him on the table in the little hangar office. There were the daily papers, some circulars, and several letters. Jimmy had already slit the letters open. The one he picked out of the bunch was a rather bulky letter that bore, in the upper left hand corner, this return address: Warren Long, Hadley Airport, New Brunswick, N. J. But Jimmy did not need to read this return address to know from whom the letter came. He recognized the handwriting instantly. That was why he selected this letter in preference to any other letter, to read first.

He knew perfectly well that it was from his old friend Warren Long, dean of Air Mail fliers, the pilot who had helped him to get into the U. S. Air Mail Service as a “grease monkey,” and who had afterward assisted him up the ladder, rung by rung, until he, Jimmy, had attained his present enviable position as a flying reporter for the New York Morning Press.

Jimmy wondered why Warren Long had written to him. He opened the envelope eagerly.

Out dropped what looked like a white silk handkerchief. Jimmy was more puzzled than ever. With growing curiosity he pulled the letter from the envelope, spread it out on his desk, and read as follows:

Dear Jimmy:

Last night I had occasion to join the Caterpillar Club. It is odd how a fellow’s brain works at such times. As I was on my way to the ground I thought of you. Why I should think of you at such a time I do not know. But I did, and I said to myself, “Jimmy would like a piece of this parachute. He’s always collecting souvenirs.” So when I got my feet on solid ground once more, I cut a piece of silk out of the ’chute, which was already badly torn by the bushes, and here it is. You may like to add it to your museum.

I suppose you’ll read in the daily paper about my losing the mail. I’m all cut up about it. This is the first cargo I ever lost in ten years of flying the mail. I tried to save it, but it was impossible. You see, my plane somehow caught fire. I tried to extinguish the flames; but the fire must have been in the crank-case or somewhere where the extinguisher fluid couldn’t touch it. Then I tried to reach the nearest emergency landing field; but my engine went dead. The flames were spreading fast and shooting back into the cockpit in sheets. There was nothing to do but step out. My, how I hated to abandon the mail. But I had no choice. So I disconnected my head phones from the instrument board, picked up my flashlight, and stepped out.

The instant I did so the plane turned on her side and dived straight after me. It was interesting to watch it. I was evidently falling head down, for I could see everything without even turning my eyes. My ship plunged like a rocket stick. She was just one long streak of fire. I thought sure she was going to hit me. I tried to crowd over and get out of the way. You can’t imagine what a funny, helpless feeling a fellow has when he can’t touch anything with either his hands or his feet. Anyway, the ship just grazed me, but a miss is as good as a mile. The instant she was past I started to pull the rip-cord. I found my flash-light was in my right hand. I had to shift it to my left hand. That didn’t take very long, but I was then so near the ground that every second counted. I made the shift and gave the rip-cord a quick jerk. It wasn’t a moment too soon, either. While I was floating down the rest of the way to the earth I thought of you.

While I was still in the air, my ship hit with a terrific explosion. It was utterly consumed. Everything about it was burned. Much of the metal was melted by the terrible heat. The place where I came down was nearly half a mile from the spot where the ship landed. There was a thick woods between me and the ship. I could see the glare of the fire plainly, and I hurried right over to the spot. A lad from the neighborhood helped me. Some farmers were already there.

I am sending this bit of my ’chute for you to add to your collection, as I said, and I also write to tell you that if you ever have to step out of your ship at night,