Jimmy directed the taxi driver to take him to the nearest big newspaper. They drove off at speed. Jimmy found the city editor, told him who he was, and asked if he could buy a few rescue pictures for use in the _Morning Press_ in New York. He showed his _Press_ credentials. The city editor turned him over to the photograph staff and Jimmy got several good prints that showed firemen carrying unconscious victims down ladders at the wrecked hospital. He thanked the newspaper men for their help, ran out to his taxi, and was rushed back to his comrade. Handley was still pounding away on his typewriter, utterly oblivious to all that went on about him. He hardly even looked up when Jimmy sat down beside him and started to read the story Handley had written. Jimmy marveled as he watched his colleague dash off the tale. He wondered if he would ever be able to write like that. He was amazed at the gripping quality of the story Handley had written. At last the latter tore the final sheet from his typewriter. He had made carbon copies as he wrote. Jimmy had already sorted out the two sets of sheets. He stuffed one copy of the story into his own pocket and handed the other copy to Handley. “We’ve certainly played in luck,” he said. “Let us hope I have as good luck getting back to the office.” Jimmy glanced up at the sky. So intent had he been upon his work that he had forgotten about the weather. What he saw now brought a deep frown to his face. “We’ll have to be stepping,” he said. “It’s already six-thirty. I should have been off before this.” “I’ll stay here and get more stuff,” said Handley. “Good luck to you.” He turned to the driver of the taxi. “To the airport as fast as you can make it,” he said. “This man has to be in New York by eleven o’clock.” They dashed off at speed. At the airport Jimmy hurried to the office of the weather forecaster. There he found Mr. Beverly Graham, who was in charge of the entire eastern section of the Airways Weather Bureau, and who had been the forecaster at Hadley Field in the days when Jimmy was in the U. S. mail service. “Well, where in the world did you come from, Jimmy?” asked Mr. Graham, as he jumped to his feet and held out his hand. “I’m glad to see you.” “Not half as much as I am to see you,” replied Jimmy, shaking Mr. Graham’s hand heartily. “You know I’m flying for the New York _Press_, and I’ve got the story of the hospital disaster in my pocket and a camera full of pictures. I’ve got to reach New York as quick as I can get there. What’s the weather like along the line?” Mr. Graham frowned and looked at Jimmy intently. “I’m sorry you have to fly to-night,” he said. “The weather couldn’t be worse. There’s the densest kind of a fog from one end of Pennsylvania to the other.” “I’m sorry, too,” said Jimmy, looking glum. “But it has to be done. The _Press_ simply _must_ get these pictures.”