Round the World in Seven Days

by Herbert Strang

  CHAPTER XVI

  A STOP-PRESS MESSAGE

  Mr. John McMurtrie, editor of the _Toronto Sphere_, a capablejournalist and a man of many friends, strolled into his office aboutthree o'clock one Wednesday afternoon. His first extra edition was dueat four, and it may seem that he had allowed himself a very short timefor dealing with fresh items of news that had come to hand since noon;but he had an excellent assistant, who took a real interest in hiswork, so that there was no need for the editor to hurry his luncheonor the ensuing cigar.

  "Well, Daniels," he said genially, as he entered his assistant's room.He sat across a corner of the table, exhibiting a well-developed calfneatly covered with golfing hose. "Is there anything fresh and frothyon the tape?"

  "Not much. A wire from 'Frisco about those flying men."

  "You don't say so?"

  "Here it is."

  He handed the slip to his chief, who ran his eye over the message. Thewords employed were few, but a journalist of McMurtrie's experienceinstinctively covered the bare bones with a respectable integument,and clothed this with a quite picturesque raiment by force of the moreornamental parts of speech.

  The substance of what he read was as follows: A cable message hadreached San Francisco from Honolulu in the afternoon of the previousday, announcing that an aeroplane had alighted there about threeo'clock that morning, the owner, a Lieutenant Thistleton (so it wascorrupted) Smith declaring that he had come from Samoa in sixteenhours, and was proceeding to San Francisco. He had left three hourslater, having waited only to take in a stock of petrol. On receipt ofthis message the editor of every newspaper in the city had arrangedfor a relay of reporters to be up all night and watch for the arrivalof this extraordinary machine. Shortly after midnight the hum of thepropellers was heard over Golden Gate, and a light in the skyindicating the course of the aeroplane, a dozen journalists, inmotor-cars, rushed after it, but were hopelessly out-distanced. Theydiscovered it on the outskirts of the city. The airmen had alreadylanded. The reporter who was first in the race seized upon LieutenantSmith, and learning that he had only alighted to obtain more petrol,rushed him back to the city in his car. His comrades and competitors,on arriving, sought to interview the second man, whose name they hadnot been able to ascertain; but he was very uncommunicative, beingoccupied in cleaning the engine. Lieutenant Smith was back with petrolin twenty minutes; in half-an-hour he was again on his way. Thisextreme haste caused great disappointment to the airmen and civicdignitaries of the city, they having risen from their beds on hearingof his arrival to honour Lieutenant Smith with a reception. When theyreached the spot where he had descended, he had been gone some tenminutes. In the race to meet him, one of the motor-cars collided withan electric-light standard and was overturned, its occupant, Mr.Aeneas T. Muckleridge, being carried to hospital in a criticalcondition. Several San Francisco newspapers had published interviewswith Lieutenant Smith, one of them ten columns long.

  Mr. McMurtrie chuckled as he read this dispatch in the shorthand ofthe news agency.

  "Bedad, 'tis worth a special editorial, Daniels. But why didn't we getit before, man? It ought to have been in time for the morningpapers."

  "You remember, sir, there's been something wrong with the line to-daythrough the storm."

  "So there has, indeed. Well, take out that stuff about the new Britishtariff, and send Davis in to me."

  He went into his room, sat back in his chair, pushed up his golfingcap, and smiled as he meditated the periods of his editorial. In a fewmoments a thin, ragged-headed youth entered with an air of haste andterror. He carried a paper-block, which he set on his knee, lookinganxiously at the editor. Mr. McMurtrie began to dictate, thestenographer's pencil flying over the paper as he sought to overtakethe rapid utterance of his chief. The article, as it appeared on thesecond page of the _Sphere_ an hour later, ran as follows:

  HOCUS POCUS

  A hoax, or as our merry ancestors would have called it, a flam, is usually the most ephemeral and evanescent of human devices. Like a boy's soap bubble, it glitters for a brief moment in iridescent rotundity, then ceases to be even a film of air. It is unsubstantial as the tail of Halley's comet. On rare occasions, it is true, its existence is prolonged; many worthy people are beguiled; and some enthusiasts are so effectually hoodwinked as to persist in their delusion, and even to form societies for its propagation. But mankind at large is sufficiently sane to avoid a fall into this abyss of the absurd, and, having paid its tribute of laughter, goes its way without being a cent the worse.

  San Francisco appears to be the latest victim of The Great Aviation Hoax, and we shall watch the progressive stages of its disillusionment with sympathetic interest, or the development of its newest cult with sincere commiseration. Like many other phenomena, good and bad, this gigantic flam, it will be remembered, took its rise in the east. Its genesis was reported in Constantinople nearly a week ago: then at intervals we learnt that these mysterious airmen, one of whom with artful artlessness had adopted the plain, respectable, and specious name of Smith, had manifested themselves at Karachi, Penang, and Port Darwin successively. The curtain then dropped, and the world waited with suspense for the opening of the next act, though there were some who suspected that the performers had slipped away with the cash-box during the interval, and would never be heard of again. However, the curtain has at last rung up at the golden city of the west, and it is certainly a mark of the ingenuity of the concocters of the hoax that they allowed at least twenty-four hours for the passage of the Pacific. In another column we give an account of a visit to San Francisco, in the small hours of this morning, from which it will be seen that the city fathers narrowly escaped making themselves ridiculous, the flying men having wisely disappeared before the municipal deputation, hastily summoned from their beds, had time to make the indispensable changes in their attire. It need scarcely be hinted that there are many accomplished aviators in San Francisco who would take a jovial pleasure in lending themselves to this amusing hoax, if only for the chance of seeing their most reverend seniors in pyjamas.

  A glance at the itinerary of the alleged world tourists, coupled with a comparison of dates, will show how impossible it is for them to have covered the stages of their tour in the time claimed. Indeed, it is almost an insult to our readers' intelligence even to suggest this comparison. The record put up by Blakeney in his New York-Chicago flight was 102 miles per hour for six consecutive hours. If the flying men who are now asserted to have touched at San Francisco are the same as were reported by the Constantinople correspondent of the London _Times_ on Friday last, a simple calculation will show that they must have flown for many days at a time at twice Blakeney's speed, with the briefest intervals for food and rest. It is not yet claimed that the alleged Smith and his anonymous companion have discovered a means of dispensing with sleep, or that they are content, like the fabulous chameleon, to live on air. Our children may live to witness such developments in the science of aviation as may render possible an aerial journey of this length and celerity; but so sudden an augmentation of the speed and endurance of the aeroplane, to say nothing of the more delicate mechanism of the human frame, demands a more authentic confirmation of the midnight impressions of the San Francisco journalists than has yet come to hand. In short, we do not believe a word of it, and our speculation at the moment is, what brand of soap or tinned meat, what new machine oil, or panacea for human ills, these ingeniously arranged manifestations are intended to boom.

  "What do you think of that, Davis?" asked Mr. McMurtrie at the end ofsix minutes' rapid dictation. It was his pardonable weakness to claimthe admiration of his subordinates.

  "Bully, sir," replied the
shorthand-writer timidly. As a matter offact, he thought nothing at all, his whole attention having been socompletely absorbed by his task of making dots and curves and dashesas to leave no portion of his brain available for receiving mentalimpressions. But the editor was satisfied. Telling the youth totranscribe his notes and send the flimsies page by page as completedto the printer, he took up his golf sticks, passed through the outeroffice, instructing his assistant to read the proof, and departed tohis recreation.

  There is an excellent golf course on the Scarborough Bluffs, therugged, seamed, and fissured cliffs that form the northern shore ofLake Ontario, near Toronto. Boarding a trolley-car, Mr. McMurtrie soonreached the club-house, where he found his friend Harry Cleavealready awaiting him.

  "Hullo, Mac. Day's work done?" was Mr. Cleave's salutation.

  "Indeed it is. The best day's work I have done for a good while."

  "Then you are pitching into somebody or something, that's certain.What is it this time?"

  "Bubbles, my boy. Those flying-men are after spinning again. Some ofthe 'Frisco men will have a pain within side of 'em when they read howI have touched 'em up. Now then, Cleave, we've got the course toourselves. I'm sure I can give you half a stroke and a beating. 'Tisyour honour."

  The consciousness of having touched up the 'Frisco men seemed to havea salutary influence on Mr. McMurtrie's play. He was in the top ofform, won the first two holes, and was in the act of lifting his clubto drive off from the tee of number three, when a faint buzzing soundfrom the direction of the lake caused him to suspend the stroke andglance over the placid blue water. Far away in the sky he saw a darkspeck about the size of a swallow, which, however, grew withextraordinary rapidity, and in a few moments declared itself to be anaeroplane containing two men.

  "Be jabers!" quoth Mr. McMurtrie, resting his club on the ground andwatching the flying machine with eyes in which might have beendiscerned a shade of misgiving.

  It was, perhaps, thirty seconds from the time when he first caughtsight of it that the aeroplane came perpendicularly above his head,the whirring ceased, and the machine descended with graceful swoopupon the well-cropt turf within fifty yards of the spot where the twogolfers stood. As soon as it alighted, Mr. McMurtrie handed his sticksto the caddie, and, as one released from a spell, hurried to meet theman who had just stepped out of the car.

  "That's Toronto over yonder?" said Smith without ceremony.

  "Indeed it is," replied McMurtrie, taking stock of the dirtydishevelled figure. "Your name's not Smith?"

  "Indeed it is!"

  "Holy Moses!" ejaculated McMurtrie, and, to Smith's amazement, heturned his back and sprinted at the speed of a race-horse towards theclub-house a few hundred yards away. He rushed to the telephone box,rang up his office, and, catching at his breath, waited with feverisheagerness for the answer to his call.

  "You there, Daniels? I'm McMurtrie. For any sake stop press, cancelthat leader, put back the tariff, votes for women, anything, onlystop it.... What!... Edition off the machine!... Don't let a copyleave the office.... What!... First deliveries made!... Recall 'em,or the paper's ruined. Smith's here!... No, This-something Smith ...no, you ass, the naval lieutenant, he flying man: don't youunderstand!... understand!... are you there?... Get out a specialedition at once.... Where's Davis? Bring him to the 'phone to take anote.... That you, Davis? Take this down.... 'As we go to press wehave the best of evidence for the statement that the marvellousworld-flight of that intrepid young airman, Lieutenant ThistledownSmith, of the British Navy, is a sober fact, and not, as our scepticalwiseacres have asserted, an ingeniously concocted hoax. LieutenantSmith descended at 3:50 this afternoon on the Scarborough Bluffs,having accomplished the enormous distance from San Francisco without astop, in the marvellous time of twelve hours, twenty-one minutes, andfourteen seconds. In our final edition, which will be accelerated, weshall publish an interview with Lieutenant Smith, with exclusiveparticulars of his remarkable voyage and his romantic career."

  "I'm not so sure of that," said Smith dryly. He had entered with Mr.Cleave, and heard the frenzied editor's concluding sentences. "Tobegin with, I stopped at St. Paul, and was lucky enough to escapewithout attracting any attention. I shouldn't have been here but forthe storm."

  "For goodness' sake, Lieutenant, don't tell anybody that. A littlestop at St. Paul isn't worth making a fuss about. You'll come alonginto the city with me, and we will get a few of the boys together andgive you a topping dinner."

  "I'd rather be hanged," said Smith. "The fact is, I only came down toget enough petrol on board to take me across the Atlantic. You cantell me where to get what I want?"

  "Indeed I can. I tell you what. I'll 'phone for the petrol--how muchdo you want?--and get it out here in no time. You won't mind meringing up a few particular friends, and inviting them out to seeyou?"

  "Please don't do anything of the kind. I'm very tired; I'm notpresentable; and I've no time to spare."

  "Sure you wouldn't be after declining to answer a question or two--tobe worked up into an interview, you know?"

  "Really, I've nothing to tell. You appear to know a good deal about mealready, and I'm sure your imagination can supply the rest."

  "But there's a gap, lieutenant. We can't account for you between PortDarwin and Honolulu."

  "We're wasting time," said Smith despairingly. "Be so good as to orderup the petrol; then I'll give you a few headings."

  McMurtrie was delighted. He gave the order to a firm in the city,requesting that the petrol should be sent out by motor at once. Thenhe took Smith and Cleave into the luncheon-room, which they had tothemselves, ordered a meal for Smith, and drinks for Cleave andhimself, and while Smith was eating, filled his note-book withjottings, which he foretold would sell out two editions of his paperlike winking.

  Rodier, meanwhile, was cleaning the engine.

  To execute an order smartly is one of the first of business virtues.Smith was satisfied that the virtue was appreciated in Toronto: thepetrol arrived, as McMurtrie assured him, in the shortest possibletime. Unluckily the Toronto men of business had their share ofhumanity's common failing--if it is a failing--curiosity. McMurtrie,with Smith at his elbow, had scrupulously refrained from explainingwhat the petrol was wanted for; his assistant, Daniels, had been toobusy seeing the special edition to press to run about gossiping; andDavis, the shorthand-writer, the third in the secret, had become somechanical that nothing stirred emotion within him; he wrote ofmurders, assassinations, political convulsions, Rooseveltian exploits,diplomatic indiscretions, everything but football matches, with thesame pencil and the same cold, inhuman precision. But it happened thatone of the compositors in the _Sphere_ printing office, who took alively interest in the affairs of his fellow mortals, had a bet with afriend in the plumbing line about this very matter of the mysteriousflying men. No sooner had he set up his portion of the editor's notethan he begged leave of absence for half-an-hour from the overseer,whipped off his apron, and rushed off to demand his winnings beforethe loser had time to spend them in the _Blue Lion_ on the way homefrom work. They repaired, nevertheless, to the _Blue Lion_ to settletheir account; they told the news to the barman, who passed it to thelandlord; a publisher's clerk heard it, and repeated it to themanager; the manager acquainted the head of the firm as he went out totea; the publisher mentioned it in an off-hand way to the man next himat the cafe; and--to roll the snowball no further--half Toronto was inpossession of the news before the _Sphere_ appeared on the streets.

  The result was a general exodus in the direction of the ScarboroughBluffs. On foot, on bicycles, in cabs, motor-cars, trolley-cars,drays, and all kinds of vehicles, every one who had a tincture ofsporting spirit set off to see two men and a structure of metal andcanvas--quite ordinary persons and things, but representing a Deed andan Idea.

  Thus it happened that close behind the dray conveying the petrol camea long procession, the sound of whose coming announced it from afar.

  "'Tis the way of us in Toronto," said McMurtrie s
oothingly, when Smithvented his annoyance.

  The crowd invaded the club-grounds, to the horror of thegreen-keepers, and rolled past the club-house to the aeroplane, whereRodier, having finished cleaning, was regaling himself with anexcellent repast sent out to him by Mr. McMurtrie. Cheers forLieutenant Smith arose; Rodier smiled and bowed, not ceasing to plyhis knife and fork until a daring youth put his foot upon theaeroplane. Then Rodier dropped knife and fork, and rushed like a catat the intruder. The Frenchiness of his language apprised thespectators that they were on the wrong scent, and they demanded toknow where Lieutenant Smith was. Knowing Smith's dislike ofdemonstrations, Rodier was about to point lugubriously to the edge ofthe cliff, when some one shouted "Here he is!" and the mob flockedtowards the club-house, from which Smith had just emerged. Rodierseized the opportunity to finish his meal, and direct the operationsof the men who had brought the petrol.

  Smith had not found himself in so large a crowd of English-speakingpeople since he had left London. The early morning enthusiasm of theSan Francisco journalists was hard to bear, but the afternoonenthusiasm of Toronto was terrible. Hundreds of young fellows wantedto hoist him to their shoulders; dozens of opulent citizens perspiredto carry him to the city in their cars; some very young ladies pantedto kiss him; and a score of journalists buzzed about him, but uponthem McMurtrie smiled with a look of conscious superiority. Smithwhispered to him. The editor nodded.

  "Gentlemen!" he shouted, holding up his hand.

  "Silence!... Hear, hear!... S-s-sh!... Don't make such a row!...Same to you!... Let's hear what Jack McMurtrie has got to say."

  Thus the babel was roared down.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," said McMurtrie; "Mr. Smith--"

  "Three cheers for Smith!" shouted some one; horns blurted; from theedge of the crowd the first notes of "For he's a jolly good fellow"were heard, and they sang it through twice, so that those who hadmissed the beginning should not be hurt in their feelings.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," began McMurtrie again, when he could make hisvoice heard, "Mr. Smith, who is rather hoarse from constant exposureto the night air, asks me to thank you for the warmth of yourreception. He has been good enough to give me full particulars of hiswonderful journey, which you will find in the final edition of the_Sphere_. As I've no doubt at all that you are anxious to have thechance of seeing Mr. Smith performing the evolutions which up to thistime have been witnessed by next to nobody but the stars and theflying fishes, he has consented, at my request, to give ademonstration, provided that you'll allow him a clear run, and don'tbe accessory to your own manslaughter."

  This announcement was greeted with loud cheers. The crowd fell back,allowing Smith a free course to the aeroplane.

  "Bedad," said McMurtrie; "I wouldn't wonder but they tear me to piecesbefore I get safe home. But I'll skip into a motor-car as soon as youare started. Now, is there anything I can do for you before you go?"

  "Only send two cables for me; one to my sister: here's the address;say simply 'All well.' The other to Barracombe, 532 Mincing Lane,London, asking him to meet me at home at eleven p.m., to-morrow. Youwon't forget?"

  "I will not. But you're a cool hand, to be sure."

  A space was cleared; the aeroplane ran off, soared aloft, and for afew seconds circled over the heads of the spectators. Then a voicecame to them from the air, not so much like Longfellow's falling staras an emission from a gramaphone.

  "Good-bye, friends. Thanks for your kind reception. Sorry I can't stayany longer; but I've got to be in Portsmouth, England withintwenty-four hours. Good-bye."

  The aeroplane wheeled eastward, and shot forward at a speed that madethe onlookers gasp. When it had disappeared, they became suddenlyalive to the suspicion that Jack McMurtrie had practised a ruse onthem. They gave a yell and looked round for him. A motor-car wasmaking at forty miles an hour for Toronto.