The locality was absolutely inaccessible except by air. The aviators had damaged their plane in landing, and it was necessary to get to them with spare parts. The Associated Press, as well as some of the larger dailies, thought it was equally important that their stories should reach the world. There was a wireless station on the mainland fifteen miles away, but for some reason the operator did not get the sort of news the papers wanted. The Canadian Government started a steamer toward the island, but it was soon caught fast in the ice. I had been a flyer during the war and continued to fly a plane for the pleasure it gave me. In that world which now seems so distant, I had some reputation as a writer. The Associated Press suggested that I fly to Greenly Island and get the stories of the marooned aviators. Perhaps I am spending more time on this episode than it deserves. It is sufficient to say that I got the stories and got them back to New York. If that had been all there was to the adventure, there is a strong probability that I would have perished some months later with most of the other inhabitants of the United States. It happened, however, that there were other flyers planning east-to-west hops. It occurred to the powers who decided such things, that it might be a good idea to have me fly back to Labrador and make it my headquarters and establish an observation post while transatlantic flights were being attempted. Accordingly, I flew back to Labrador whenever a transatlantic flight was rumored, and made my headquarters at Point Amour on the mainland. The wireless station was here, and about a hundred people. Little Greenly Island was some fifteen miles across Belle Isle Strait. I was getting rather bored waiting for something to happen, when one night Jim Daley, the wireless operator, came running to the cottage where I stayed, too excited to wait until nine o'clock, when I always strolled over to the wireless station for a game of chess. I stared at him in astonishment. "What's all the excitement about?" I inquired. He had been running so fast that for a moment he could not get his breath to talk. "You wait until you hear," he gasped. "I bet you'll be as excited as I am. The world's coming to an end next week!" I laughed. "No, I mean it," he said. "It's not a joke. Here's a bulletin issued by the Smithsonian. I copied it as it came in." He handed me a sheet of paper. * * * * * The News Comes Out As far as I know, this bulletin was the first intimation of the coming catastrophe sent out over the radio. I assume that every effort was made to keep the matter quiet, until it became evident that no escape was possible. Consequently up there in Labrador we had heard none of the rumors that had spread over the civilized world, and had seen no references to the strange lunar phenomenon which in a sense had prepared most people for the announcement of some unusual event.