The Motor Rangers' Wireless Station

CHAPTER XXI.

IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS

Joe had plenty to ponder after Hank had left. Of course, he had heard from Nat of the mysterious “Nemo” call, and, in view of what he had heard from the reformed member of the Harley family, it looked to him very much as if old Israel had had some hand in the affair. Then, too, there was Hank’s remarkable change of front. Joe had at first questioned the youth’s sincerity but after a time his manner left no room to doubt that his proffer of friendship was genuine. Joe was very glad that this was so, for, in case old Israel returned and tried to make trouble, Hank would prove a valuable ally.

“I reckon I’ll see if I can raise the Nomad and flash Nat the news of the afternoon,” thought Joe, upon whose hands the time was beginning to hang heavily.

If anyone was on board the Nomad, this would be an easy thing for Joe to do, for by this time the wireless outfit, that the boys had agreed would prove a valuable addition to the Nomad’s equipment, had been installed.

But before Joe could reach his instruments the wireless “alarm clock” began ringing loudly, sounding the Goat Island call. Joe hastened to the apparatus and sent out a reply. Then he adjusted the head band and the receivers and began listening. The message that came made his cheeks tingle with pleasure. It was from the Chief of Police of Santa Barbara and was as follows:

“Congratulations. Good work. Man on Vesta bank robber badly wanted. Probably a reward case.”

Joe felt a distinct feeling of pleasure over the despatch. It demonstrated in no uncertain way the practical utility of their plant. But the boy felt somewhat disappointed that the two miscreants who had so roughly used him had not been apprehended. He was not a revengeful lad but he would certainly have liked to learn of the men’s capture.

Presently he set about the task of raising the Nomad by wireless. But, although he tried for more than an hour to get some response, he failed to do so.

“That’s queer,” thought the boy. “Nat said that he would surely be on his way back before dark. Well, I suppose I’ve got to make up my mind to spend a solitary evening of it.”

As it grew dark he cooked his supper and ate it with a hearty appetite. Afterward he read for a while and then, feeling drowsy, determined to turn in.

“I guess there’s no chance of Nat’s coming back to-night,” he thought as he extinguished the light.

How much later it was that he awakened, he did not know, but some impulse made him go to the window and look over toward the wireless hut. To his astonishment a light was shining in the casement of the structure that housed the instruments.

Joe’s heart gave a great bound.

“It’s Israel Harley!” he exclaimed under his breath. “What am I to do? He’s sure not to be alone and Nat’s revolver is locked in his trunk.”

The boy was no coward, as those who have followed the Motor Rangers’ adventures know, but the situation was one that might have tried stronger nerves than Joe Hartley’s, gritty as he was.

He saw a shadow cross the lighted window as whoever was within the wireless hut moved about.

“I don’t like this a bit,” muttered Joe to himself, as he cast about for the best means of coping with the situation. “Those fellows are just about as bad as bad can be and I’ve had one experience with ruffians already to-day. I don’t feel like having a second struggle.”

The light burned steadily on, but whoever was within the hut did not pass the window again.

“They may be demolishing the instruments and smashing things up generally right now,” said Joe to himself as he watched and waited.

The thought was like a tonic to him. He determined to delay no longer but, come what might of it, to surprise the intruders and trust to luck for the outcome. He selected a short, heavy oar from some that lay outside the shanty. It made quite a formidable weapon when wielded by a muscular lad like Joe, and as his fingers closed on it he felt ready to give battle to a whole tribe of Harleys.

In a quiver of excitement and suspense, he crept forward almost noiselessly over the soft sand. What the outcome of the affair would be he did not know nor did he dare to think. But he was determined at all hazards to guard the valuable equipment of the wireless station.

“At any rate, I’ll give a good account of myself,” he thought as he advanced toward the lighted hut.

Nevertheless he caught himself wishing more than once that his chums were with him. About twenty feet from the hut he paused and listened intently. He fully expected to hear the noise of breakage as the vandals destroyed the instruments.

But to his astonishment all was utter silence. The only sound to be heard was the breaking of the waves on the sandy beach below.

“Funny I don’t hear any voices, either,” he muttered. “There must be more than one of them. Old Israel’s not the sort of man to come alone on an enterprise of this kind.”

Once more he paused after advancing a few steps, but as before no suspicious sounds broke the stillness.

“It can’t be spooks,” he thought, and the next minute had to smile at himself for entertaining such a silly notion.

“No, it’s human beings all right, and ones who have no good intentions toward us or they wouldn’t come sneaking around here like thieves in the night. I suppose that they saw that the Nomad had gone from her moorings and that the shanty was dark and assumed that there was no one here.”

He advanced still further and was now quite close up to the hut. Still all was silence within. Had it not been for the light in the window he would have deemed that he was the victim of a delusion. But there was no mistaking the fact of the light, and no mistaking, also, that it was a human agency that had kindled it.

“Thought there was no one here, eh?” muttered Joe, gritting his teeth. “Well, Harley and Co., here’s where you get the surprise of your young lives.”

He stepped forward with brisk determination and prepared to thrust the closed door open.

But the next instant he stopped dead.

“Well!” he ejaculated in startled amazement.

From within the hut had come the last sound in the world he expected to hear. It was the whine and crackle of the spark. Somebody was sending a message!

CHAPTER XXII.

AN UNEXPECTED STUDENT

“Open the door!”

Joe spoke in an authoritative voice as he rattled the portal of the hut. It was locked inside, and at the first turn of the handle the crackling and sputtering of the spark had ceased.

“Hurry up, now,” hailed Joe again as a scuffling sound followed his first order, but no audible reply issued from within.

“It can’t be old Israel and his crowd,” thought the boy as he listened, “and it can’t be those two rascals who were here this afternoon. Either one of those lots would have flung the door open long ago and rushed out on me. Who in the world can it be, then? Somebody trying to play a joke? They’ll find it a pretty unpleasant one.”

Joe waited a minute or two and then as no move was made by whoever was within to open the hut door, he hailed again in an angry voice.

“You’d better obey. It will be all the worse for you if you don’t.”

Footsteps sounded inside and Joe gripped his oar, prepared to bring it down with a crash on the head of whoever appeared. He was not going to take any chances. There followed the sounds of fumbling with a lock and the next minute the door opened. Out stepped a figure so utterly unlike any one that Joe had expected to see that he almost dropped his oar in his astonishment.

The intruder who had caused Joe so much disquietude was a slender stripling of a youth of not more than fifteen. He had a pale, studious face, big, frightened eyes and walked with a limp.

“Don’t hit me! Don’t!” he begged as he saw Joe standing there with lips grimly compressed and the oar raised ready to strike.

“Caught you right in the act, haven’t I?” spoke Joe, as fiercely as he could.

“Yes, sir,” said the lad in a thin, wavering voice.

“What do you mean by trespassing here?” demanded Joe.

The lad stammered something and Joe, touched in spite of himself by the youth’s wan, pale look, spoke more kindly.

“I’m not an officer or a judge,” he said, “but I’m in charge here, and you are trespassing on private property.”

The boy looked alarmed.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” he said, “I suppose I’d better get out.”

“Tell me what you came here for before you do that,” said Joe. “I’m interested in knowing.”

“I didn’t think there’d be any harm. I came over in my sailboat.”

A sudden thought struck Joe.

“Is this the first time that you’ve been here?” he demanded.

“No,” confessed the lad, hanging his head; “I’ve often come over here when you were all away.”

“And you thought that was the case to-night?”

The lad nodded.

“But what object brought you?”

The boy’s eyes kindled and his pale cheeks flushed.

“I love the wireless,” he said, speaking more firmly; “I wanted to use it and I had no other opportunity.”

“You can operate?”

The boy nodded and once more his eyes brightened.

“Yes, a little bit. I’m not very good at it yet.”

“You’re good enough to sign your name ‘Nemo,’ though, aren’t you?” shot out Joe on a hazard. A conviction had been growing in his mind that this sickly-looking lad must be the “Nemo” who had so mystified them. The stranger’s face turned crimson. He hung his head and looked embarrassed.

“How did you guess it?” he asked, after a considerable pause. And then he went on, “It’s no use beating about the bush. My name is Jim Dolliver; I come from Powell’s Cove. My dad is a small rancher and hasn’t much use for me because with this game foot I’m not able to do much work. I begged him to let me take up wireless telegraphy and make a future for myself, but he says that it’s ‘all foolish rot.’ I heard about you boys building this plant out here, and one night when I knew you weren’t here I sneaked over in my boat and began practice on a real key. You see I’d learned the Morse alphabet and the theory of wireless at home and practiced with a home-made key. I found it came easier than I expected, and the habit of coming over here kind of grew on me. That night when I got the call for Goat Island, I just couldn’t help answering it, but I got scared and cut off. It was wrong of me, I know, to sneak in and use your apparatus this way, but I just couldn’t help it.”

“And what are you going to do now?” asked Joe, watching the lad keenly.

“Say good-bye, I guess; that is, if you don’t arrest me for trespassing. I’ve always been very careful with your instruments, and I know I haven’t injured them, but I see now that I ought never to have come here at all.”

He was starting toward the beach, but Joe detained him.

“Look here, sonny,” he said, “I don’t see why there should be any objection to your using our plant for practice if you want to. Of course, I’d have to consult my chums and – ”

“Then you’re not angry?”

“Not a bit. I think you’ve shown a whole lot of grit and pluck in taking all the pains you have to get real practice on a real wireless set. I mean to tell Nat and Ding-dong – those are my chums – about you, and we’ll see what can be done.”

“Oh, that’s awfully good of you!”

“Not a bit, and now you’d better be getting back home. It’s quite a sail from here to Powell’s Cove, and your folks will be wondering where you are.”

“I haven’t got any folks, only just my dad,” was the pathetic reply; “and dad, he don’t take no account of where I go. He’s got a friend stopping with him, though, that’s powerfully interested in you fellows over here.”

“Is that so?” asked Joe rather indifferently.

“Yes, he’s always talking about you and about the wireless. From what I’ve heard him telling dad, he hasn’t got much use for you, either.”

“How is that, Jim?”

“Why, he says that you are interfering busybodies, and that if it wasn’t for you, he’d be out of the country by this time instead of having to hide his head.”

Joe grew suddenly interested.

“What sort of a looking fellow is this friend of your father’s, and when did he come to stop with him?” he asked.

“Oh, about two weeks ago. I don’t like him a bit. He’s got a big, black beard and looks at you ever so fiercely. He don’t go out much, and whenever there’s a rig or anything coming along the road, he beats it for the cellar. ’Pears to me like he’s scared of something, and – Why! what’s the matter?”

There was reason for the question, for Joe had suddenly developed a wild fit of excitement and was clasping Jim Dolliver’s hand.

“Your coming here to-night was the best thing that ever happened, Jim,” he cried. “Gracious,” he added to himself, “there isn’t a doubt in the world but that Jim’s father’s friend is Miles Minory.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

A CALL FROM THE SHORE

It was early the next morning that the “wireless alarm” summoned Joe from his couch. Sleepily he made his way to the wireless hut and was soon in communication with Nat. Something had gone wrong with the Nomad’s wireless, it appeared, and Ding-dong’s new station was not in working order. This was the reason that Joe had not been called up the night before.

“Anything happened?” asked Nat.

“Lots,” tapped out Joe sententiously, “but you’ll have to wait to hear all about it till you get over here.”

Nat rejoined that he would be over about noon, and then Joe, in order to keep his mind occupied, set about a general cleaning up of the wireless instruments and a thorough “spring cleaning” of the shanty.

This work occupied him so busily that he had little time to notice the weather, and it was not till a sudden downpour of rain beat a tattoo on the roof of the wireless hut that he looked out. The sky was overcast and quite a brisk sea was running. The wind, too, was blowing pretty strong.

“Nasty weather,” thought Joe, “but that won’t worry the Nomad.”

Just then came another call from Nat. The Nomad was about half an hour away from the island and making good time despite the big seas.

“Will be home to dinner,” flashed Nat, and Joe flashed back “M-M-M,” which, in telegrapher’s language, signifies “laughter.”

The Nomad came into the cove on schedule time. Her white sides were wet and glistening with spray, and Nat and Nate Spencer in their oilskins looked every inch the young seamen when they came ashore in the dinghy, the same one, by-the-way, that had been recovered from Whale Creek.

Over the meal that followed their arrival, Joe told his story amid frequent interruptions. When he came to the narrative of young Dolliver and the mysterious man who was dwelling in the elder Dolliver’s ranch house, Nat agreed with him that in all probability they had, by an extraordinary coincidence, crossed Minory’s trail once more. Of course it might be a mistaken supposition, but Nat agreed with Joe that it was at least worth while investigating.

“I’ll take a stroll around after dinner and look at the weather,” said Nat. “If it isn’t too rough we can run over in the Nomad, but after all, possibly it would be just as effective to call up Ding-dong and let him communicate with the authorities.”

While Joe and Nate washed dishes and otherwise set things to rights, Nat started out on his tramp. It was still raining hard and blowing harder, with a nasty, choppy gray sea running.

“Pretty dusty,” commented Nate, looking out of the window on the dreary seascape.

But within the shanty all was snug and warm and cheerful, and when Nat returned in half an hour or so, he found a picture of comfort awaiting him. He divested himself of his wet oilskins and heavy boots before he spoke, and then he had some remarkable news to impart.

“There’s a small schooner of not more than thirty-five or forty tons anchored off the southerly end of the island,” he said.

Nate looked up instantly. It was clear that to his seaman’s mind the news was puzzling.

“What in the world will she be anchored there for?” he asked in an astonished voice. “If she’s hove to to ride out the storm, why doesn’t she come into the cove?”

“Just what puzzled me,” said Nat. “I watched her from behind some sand dunes, but not a sign of life could I see on her decks. She looks like a fishing schooner, and yet there are no dories piled up on her deck, which makes it look all the more odd.”

“It does that,” agreed Nate; “and anyhow, fishermen wouldn’t heave to for this bit of a blow.”

“I’ll tell you what, Nate,” said Nat presently, “suppose you go and take a look at her. Then come back and tell us how you size her up. You’re sailorman enough to know a craft by the cut of her jib, and maybe you will know what vessel this is.”

“All right,” assented Nate cheerfully. “I’ll slip into my oilers, get around there and be back in two shakes of a duck’s tail.”

“And, oh, Nate, don’t show yourself if you can help it. There’s plenty of cover behind the salt grass that grows on the dunes.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Nate assured him, “I’ll be as invisible as Mort Kennedy, who owes me ten dollars, is every payday.”

The sturdy fellow strode out into the storm, leaving the two boys alone.

“Are you troubled because that fishing schooner is lying to off the island?” asked Joe, as Nate slammed the door behind him.

“Frankly, I don’t quite like the look of it,” rejoined Nat; “if she is lying to because of the storm, the cove is the natural place for her to seek shelter and not the open sea.”

“That’s right, it has a funny look. Say, Nat, you don’t think that old Israel Harley can be on board, do you?”

“I don’t know, Joe; I don’t know what to think. He is a daring old villain, and he has no reason to love us. After what Hank told you yesterday, it behooves us to be on the watch constantly. Till that schooner goes away, we can’t leave the island.”

“Then I’d better send a flash to Ding-dong. I wonder if his station is working yet?”

“It ought to be, but in that case I should think he’d have given us a call.”

“Well, we can try it, anyhow. Come on down to the hut while I get busy with the instruments.”

The two boys tried for a long time to raise Ding-dong, sending out the call “D-B,” the prearranged signal, incessantly. But no answer came for a long time, and when it did it was hardly satisfactory. It was from the Santa Barbara operator, who had been listening in.

He cut into Joe’s waves with a sharp summons for “G. I.”

“Right here,” flashed back Joe eagerly, thinking that it might be Ding-dong at last. He was soon undeceived.

“This is station O at Santa Barbara talking,” came through the air to the Motor Rangers’ aerials. “You been trying to get young Bell’s station?”

“Yes, what’s the trouble?” inquired Joe.

“I don’t know exactly, but something was the matter with his wave lengths this morning. He was trying to get you, but couldn’t succeed. But he reached me all right and left a message for you fellows.”

“A message? What is it?” flashed back Joe.

“Here it is, – all ready?”

“Go ahead.”

“Dear Nat and Joe. Don’t worry. I have left Santa Barbara on a hot clew to you know who. I expect to recover everything before night. – Ding-dong.”