Now he sat down at a typewriter in a corner, where he was not likely to be disturbed, and got ready to write. He had been turning the story over and over in his mind. He wanted to begin it in a way that would catch and hold the imagination of the reader. The feature of the story that appealed to his own imagination most powerfully was the picture of Warren Long sitting in his flaming cockpit and being slowly roasted while he guided his plane away from the little hamlet and out to the uninhabited districts, where it could not possibly fall on a house and burn up some humble home. To Jimmy’s mind that picture was even more compelling than the one of Warren Long’s falling headfirst to earth and calmly waiting for his blazing ship to pass him before he opened his parachute. In almost any other case, this latter picture would have been an unparalleled feature. But to Jimmy, while it was extremely spectacular, it lacked the appeal of the other picture. And Jimmy was right. His news sense in this case was unerring. For Warren Long, risking death in his cockpit in order to save others, was a far more appealing figure than Warren Long doing something spectacularly cool and brave to save his own life. Jimmy rightly judged that what appealed to him most powerfully would also probably appeal most powerfully to others. So he began his story with this feature of greatest appeal—the picture of Warren Long’s sacrificing himself to save some humble country folk that he didn’t even know. When he had written what he had to say about this, Jimmy took up the story of the pilot’s drop to earth, and the breathtaking experience he had had as his flaming plane dived after him. Finally he told the story, simply but graphically, of how Johnnie Lee had rushed over the rough mountain in the dark to aid the fallen pilot, and how he had taken care of him from the moment he came upon him, entangled in his parachute in the scrub growth, up to the moment that the pilot stepped on the east-bound train. So full of the story was Jimmy that he heard nothing, saw nothing, thought of nothing but the tale he was putting on paper. Before him he could see the scene he was picturing—see it as vividly as though he were still on the spot. And unconsciously he found himself using almost word for word the vivid description of the accident that Johnnie Lee had given him. His mind was so full of the story that, once he had begun to write, the tale came pouring from his typewriter as tumultuously and sparklingly as a mountain torrent rushes down its rocky bed. When at last he ended his story, he had done a truly fine piece of work. His tale was so fresh and vivid that it could not fail to attract attention. Jimmy, of course, did not realize that. All he knew was that he had done the very best he could. If there was any luck about the story, it was in the matter of the photographs. They were as clear and sharp as Jimmy’s word pictures. And they illuminated the text excellently.