The Motor Boat Club and The Wireless: or, the Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise. Hancock Harrie Irving
on Lonely Island, five miles off the mainland. They were accompanied by Hank Butts, who had left his small boat in other hands and accepted temporary employment on the “Restless.”
The island possessed an area of about half a square mile. The bungalow itself, a shed that was used as an electric power station, and a third building that contained a telescope and some other astronomical apparatus were the sole interesting features of this island.
After the chartering, and the payment of half the hire-money in advance for the month, not one of these Motor Boat Club boys had laid eyes on Mr. Powell Seaton. After cruising down from New York, and taking possession of the bungalow, as ordered, they had remained there ten whole days, idle and wondering. Idle, that is, except for running the electric power plant as much as was needed, making their own beds and doing their own cooking.
For what purpose had Powell Seaton wanted them and the “Restless”? Now, as Dawson’s active fingers pushed the pencil through the mazes of recorded messages, that active-minded young man began to get a glimpse.
“Sounds like something big, Joe,” smiled Captain Tom, his eyes twinkling under the visor of his uniform cap as he thrust his head in through the doorway.
“It is,” muttered Joe, in a low but tense voice. “Just wait. I’ve got one to send.”
His fingers moved busily at the key for a little while. Then, snatching up the sheets of paper on which he had written, Joe Dawson leaped to his feet in such haste that he sent the chair spinning across the room.
Such impulsiveness in Dawson was so utterly unusual that Captain Tom Halstead gasped.
“Come on!” called Joe, darting to the door. “Down to the boat!”
“Where–?” began Tom Halstead, but he got only as far as that word, for Joe shot back:
“To sea!”
“How–” again essayed Halstead.
“At full speed – the fastest we can travel!” called back Joe, who was leaping down the porch steps.
“Any time to lock up?” demanded Tom, half-laughingly.
“Yes – but hustle! I’ll get the motor started and be waiting.”
Hank Butts was leaning indolently against one of the porch posts.
“Look at old Joe sailing before a fair wind,” he laughed, admiringly.
“Turn to, Hank! Help lock the windows and the doors – full speed ahead!” directed Captain Tom, with vigor. “Joe Dawson never goes off at racing speed like that unless he has his orders and knows what he’s doing.”
“I thought you were the captain,” grinned Hank, as he sprang to obey.
“So I am,” Halstead shot at the other boy. “But, just as it happens, Joe has the sailing orders – and he can be trusted with ’em. Now – everything is tight and the keys in my pocket. For the dock, on the run!”
Chug-chug! Joe had surely been moving, for, by the time the other boys reached the dock, Dawson had the hatchway of the motor room open and the twin motors had begun to move. The young engineer, an oil-can in hand, was watching the revolutions of the two handsome machines.
“Stand by the stern-line to throw off, Hank,” called Captain Tom, as he raced out onto the dock and made a plunge for the bow hawser. With this in hand he sprang aboard.
“How soon, Joe?” called the young skipper, throwing the canvas cover from the wheel down onto the bridge deck.
“As soon as you like,” was Joe’s answer, as he threw more speed into the twin motors.
Hank had the stern hawser in his hands by this time. Halstead threw the wheel over slightly, warping the boat’s graceful bow away from the dock under just a touch of speed ahead.
“Come aboard, Hank!” called the young skipper. As soon as Butts had obeyed with a flying leap, Tom rang for half speed ahead, moving smoothly out of the little sand-bound harbor.
“Coil the hawsers, Hank,” directed the young skipper. “Put the wheel cover away. Then relieve Joe. I want to hear from him.”
These three separate orders Hank had executed within less than two minutes, and jumped down into the motor room. Joe came on deck, holding the sheets of paper in his hand.
“Now, let’s understand what the business is, anyway,” suggested Tom Halstead. “Who signaled us? Mr. Seaton?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t the first one,” Dawson answered. “The first hail came from out of the sea, from the Black B liner, ‘Constant,’ addressed to any wireless station and tagged ‘urgent.’ Here it is.”
One hand on the wheel, the young skipper received the sheet held out to him. It read:
Can you send fast boat instantly to take off badly injured passenger for medical treatment? Passenger A. B. Clodis, believed to be wealthy man from New York, discovered unconscious, perhaps dying, from fall. Fractured skull. Believe passenger or family to be able to pay handsomely for services.
“Here’s another sheet giving the ship’s position at that moment,” Joe continued; “also her course and speed.”
“And you answered?” demanded Halstead.
“Just as I started to, the wireless at Beaufort broke in. It seems that Mr. Seaton is at Beaufort, and that he heard, at once, of the trouble. Here is Mr. Seaton’s order.”
Joe Dawson held out another sheet, on which he had transcribed this wireless message:
Halstead, Lonely Island: Clodis is my man on important matter. Get him off ship, and with all speed. Take him to Lonely Island, where I will arrive with surgeons and nurses. Get all his baggage and papers off with him, and take greatest care of same. Whole thing plotted by enemies. If they succeed it spells ruin for me and more than one tragedy. I depend on you boys; don’t fail me! Act at full speed.
P. XXX S.
“That comes from Mr. Seaton, all right,” nodded Captain Tom. “That’s his private signal, below his name, that he told us to look for on all orders of his. Now, let me have a look again at the position and course of the ‘Constant.’”
After studying the dispatch intently, Captain Halstead nodded to his chum to take the wheel. Facing about, Tom swung open the small chart-case secured to the top of the deck-house. With a small, accurate pocket rule he made some measurements.
“At twenty-five miles an hour, Joe, if you can keep it up, a straight sou’east by east course should bring us right in the path of the ‘Constant’ on the course and speed she reports.”
“Oh, we can keep the speed up,” predicted Joe, confidently. “But I can’t fool with the engine, unless you insist. I ought to be back in the cabin, at the wireless instrument.”
“Hank can keep at the motors, then,” nodded Captain Tom. “Go along, old fellow.”
Joe paused but an instant to give Hank the needed orders, then raced aft. At the after end of the cabin were two snug little staterooms; at the other end, forward, a table had been fitted up with wireless apparatus, for the twin motors of the boat generated, by means of a dynamo, electricity enough for a very respectable wireless spark.
Hardly had Joe vanished when Hank, satisfied with the performance of the motors, appeared on deck. The signal mast stood just behind the bridge deck. It was of light, hollow steel, with two inner tubes that, when extended, made an unusually high mast for such a boat.
“We can run the extension mast up to full height in this light breeze, can’t we, Tom?” asked the Long Island boy. Halstead nodded.
So simple was the arrangement that, within a few moments, Hank had the aerials well aloft. Nor was he too soon, for this query came promptly through space from Powell Seaton, up at Beaufort:
“Are you starting at once?”
With