“The Mississippi had been in flood stage nearly a week before Nick Wentworth, chief pilot of the U. S. Air Patrol, received orders from Stiles, of the Treasury Department, to drop his work with prohibition and narcotic officers on the Border and proceed with all his ships to Little Rock for work under a representative of the Army seventh corps area. The quartet of Patrol pilots departed at once, arriving in the Arkansas town in the afternoon of the day Nick received his orders. They reported to Major Morehouse, of the Army Air Corps, for instructions. The Major, an austere man who had been harried almost to a nervous collapse during the past three days, explained the situation quickly. “The water covers the entire river district,” he told them. “Some of the smaller towns near the Mississippi are completely submerged, and most of the people who lived in them are camped for the time being in emergency quarters on high ground--out of danger if the water doesn’t rise, or if disease doesn’t become too prevalent. Conditions are frightful. We can’t hope to do very much in getting these people out of the flooded area entirely, but we can take food and medical supplies forward and drop them wherever they are needed. I’ll want all four of your planes in the air constantly; I’ll have mechanics at your disposal so you can save your energy for flying. What we want is action--speed; you’ve no idea of what the people down there are going through.” “What about landing-fields?” Nick asked. “I’ll send you down to Monticello tomorrow. A small field is available there, and in a few days a new field at Pine Bluff should be finished--” A telephone at the Major’s elbow jangled restlessly, and he paused to answer it. He listened tensely, nodding his head and speaking a word of confirmation or denial occasionally, scratching down figures and jumbled words upon a pad of paper as the information was forthcoming. Presently he hung up the receiver and turned back to the Patrol pilots. His face was grave. “Have any of you men had experience flying big ships--transports?” he asked. “Quick,” he added, when no one spoke for a moment. “Wentworth, can you fly an Army transport?” Nick had had some experience with the large planes used by the Army in transporting passengers and supplies, but he was by no means an expert in handling one of them, especially under the operating conditions he knew he would encounter in bad weather and wet landing-fields. But the Major’s manner forewarned him of some emergency to be met, and he replied, “Yes, sir, Major. What’s up?” “Train wreck. Piled up down near McLearson--trying to get through with supplies before the roadbed washed out. Hit a soft place in a fill and went into a ditch. Engine crew hurt badly, and a brakeman isn’t expected to pull through--engine fell on him when it went over--both legs crushed.” “Where’s the plane I’m to take?” Nick asked.