“He couldn’t get a thing at first-hand. Your friend the pilot is in bed, under the doctor’s orders, and could not see our reporter. All the latter could get was what he picked up from men about the airport. There wasn’t anything you don’t have and nothing half so good. So there will be no facts for you from that source. Write what you have, as plainly and simply as you told it to me just now. I’ll send you prints of your photographs as soon as they are done. We ought to have proofs very shortly.” Jimmy had not expected to write the entire story. Indeed, he had not been certain that he would have a chance to write any of it. The man who had been sent to see Warren Long was an experienced and able reporter, and Jimmy rather expected that this reporter would do the writing, and that all Jimmy could do would be to tell his story to his fellow reporter. But the matter had turned out just the opposite. Jimmy himself was to write the story. He realized that once more a big chance had come to him. For weeks—ever since he had won his new job, in fact—he had been doing little assignments, hoping every day that something worthwhile would come his way; and now this thing had happened. He meant to make the most of it. Altogether without realizing it, Jimmy had prepared himself to do a good piece of work. He did not understand that the surest way to write a really great story is to be so full of a subject and to feel the story so intensely that one is just bursting with it. Yet that was exactly the situation Jimmy was in. His love for Warren Long, his admiration for that heroic pilot, and his desire to tell all the world what a truly remarkable thing his friend had done—all this, coupled with Jimmy’s keen sense of the dramatic, had prepared him to write a gripping story. It was the same thing that had happened when he wrote the story of the Air Mail bandit. Jimmy was so full of the subject that he could think of nothing else.