“DOC” KIMBALL
The man upon whom every house-party hostess depends, the man whose advice is sought by promoters of prize-fights and Salvation Army picnics and upon whose words farmers wait eagerly, their thoughts on corn and wheat, is the weather man. And there is a special guiding genius upon whose accurate information the lives of flyers often depend. It is as important to know what he says, as to know that a motor isn’t missing.
The guide, meteorological philosopher and friend of all flyers—the man who has had his hand in all the major flights originating in this country—does not fly himself.
But it is he who says “Go” to those who do.
“What’s the weather? What does Dr. Kimball say?”
That double-barreled question was asked countless times during the thirteen weary days at Trepassey about which I have told you, as we poised on the verge of the transatlantic flight.
Returning to New York afterward, I met the “weather man” on whom we had so depended. I found him a middle aged person with a mop of grey hair topping a broad brow. He had friendly eyes, a thoughtful smile and a low, soft, southern drawling voice. The first thing he wanted to know was about the meteorological conditions met with on the flight.
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