As soon as a jump was made, the real business began. Chanute and his son, who was his chief assistant, armed with tapeline and scientific instruments, began to measure and record all pertinent data. These included date, time of day, temperature, barometric reading, humidity, wind direction and velocity, weights of glider and operator, elevation at start and length of the flight, from which trajectory was computed. The scientists worked slowly, almost painfully, with laboratory precision. Records kept in a little book were destined one day to be held as precious by the Wright brothers and other experimenters.

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We were startled on the third afternoon to see a man coming toward us over the dunes-in view on the ridges, disappearing while crossing valleys. He stopped so often he seemed very tired. Covering him with binoculars, we saw he was not a tramp or beachcomber. I began to have forebodings. When he got near enough for a good look, I recognized in the sand voyager the face of Harry Macbeth of the Times-Herald. The jig was up. We were discovered! I knew then my story would scarcely be exclusive. I went out to greet Harry, and after he got his wind, I presented him to our chief.

Mr. Chanute, I regret to have to report that we have been discovered by the Chicago press. This is all that is left of my buddy, Mr. Macbeth of the Times-Herald-shall we invite him to stay, or throw him out?

The old scientist had gotten mellow toward visitors.

With such pleasure as is possible to me, under the circumstances, Mr. Macbeth, I give you welcome. Please make yourself at home and while you are with us regard yourself as my guest.

Macbeth was all tuckered out. The station man had not given him directions. As there was plenty of daylight, he probably figured he could find his way before dark. Macbeth vowed he had walked at least 25 miles covering that two-mile stretch of sand. That night Mr. Chanute assigned him to a cot beside mine.

The next day brought another surprise-the world seemed to be getting too crowded. A man on horseback was seen coming down the beach from Michigan City, 12 miles east. Beachcombers don’t ride horses, said Avery. I’ll bet a drink it’s a New York City reporter. He proved right-all but the location of the paper. The rider turned out to be Frank Hemingway of the Chicago Chronicle. He was too smart to walk and had hired a horse and brought along oats to keep his mount sturdy while he explored the beach, figuring that if he located the fliers he could get food, but his horse could not eat sand. Frank was duly presented to Mr. Chanute. Another cot was assigned. Our main tent was filling up.

The boys of the press took naturally to camp life and gliding, with some usefulness to the boss. They became quite a help lugging around material, and some were bold enough to take a try at gliding. The third evening around the campfire took on the banter and jollity of a Press Club stag night.

Wonders never ceased. The next day we saw a light rig coming toward us on the firm, wet beach from East Chicago way, a journey of 18 miles. Beachcombers don’t use buggies, and it must be more press, observed Avery. Again he was right. The rig brought us Bob Armstrong of the Morning Record. Bob had bribed a livery stable man to drive him along the beach as far as Michigan City.

I wonder at the resourcefulness of the press, mused Mr. Chanute. I expect the next gentleman of the press to arrive will charter a tug and come as a skipper.

Our courtly host had gotten over his first feeling of isolation toward reporters and, being sure they would not abuse hospitality by reporting sensationally, he entered into their banter with good humor and enjoyment. Armstrong was formally presented to our host and was made as welcome as the rest of us.

Have you given any thought to the fact that we shall be needing more beds if the rest of the Chicago reporters come to visit us? Macbeth asked the birdman.

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