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The Motor Boat Club and The Wireless: The Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise, a novel by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 17. When The Motor Boat Club Boys "Went Daffy" |
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_ CHAPTER XVII. WHEN THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB BOYS "WENT DAFFY" All this had been spoken in whispers. Both Mr. Seaton and Tom Halstead were keenly aware of the presence of the prisoner in the starboard stateroom. "You don't seem as overjoyed as I thought you might be," observed Powell Seaton, in a tone of disappointment. "I'm going through for you, sir, and I'll deliver the papers into the proper hands, if I live," replied Tom Halstead. "And you're not afraid of the big chances of danger that you may be running?" persisted his employer. "Why, I believe every human being has times when he's afraid," Skipper Tom replied, honestly. "But I shan't be any more afraid than you've seen me once or twice since this cruise began." "Then I'll bet on your success," rejoined Mr. Seaton, holding out his hand, which the young motor boat captain grasped. "Suppose we go on deck where we can talk a little more safely, sir," whispered Tom. They made their way above and forward. "Any further word, Dawson?" inquired the charter-man. "I haven't signaled since I brought up that last message," Joe replied. "Oh, of course not," retorted Powell Seaton. "It was an idiotic question for me to ask, but I'm so excited, boys, that I don't pretend to know altogether what I'm talking about." Captain Halstead bent forward to look at the compass. He found Hank Butts steering as straight as the needle itself pointed. "What on earth can I do to pass the time of waiting?" wondered Mr. Seaton, feverishly. "Eat," laughed Tom. "You haven't had a meal since I don't know when. Give me the wheel, Hank, and see what you can fix up for Mr. Seaton in the way of food." Yet, poking along at that slow rate of speed, cutting through the fog but not able to see a boat's length ahead, proved an ordeal that tested the patience of all. After awhile Joe returned to the sending table, in order to get in touch with the "Glide" and make sure that the two vessels were still approaching each other head-on. "It's wonderful--wonderful, this wireless telegraph that keeps all the great ships and many of the small ones in constant communication," declared Powell Seaton, coming up on deck after having finished his meal. "Yet it seems odd, doesn't it, to think of even freight boats carrying a wireless installation?" "Not when you stop to consider the value of the freight steamships, and the value of their cargoes," rejoined Tom Halstead. "If a ship at sea gets into any trouble, where in older times she would have been lost, now all she has to do is to signal to other vessels within two or three hundred miles, and relief is sent on its way to the ship that needs it. In the case of a freight steamer the wireless aboard means greater safety for the crew and often saves the owners the cost of ship and cargo. The Standard Oil people were among the first to think of the wireless for cargo-carrying boats. They installed the wireless on their tank steamers, and it wasn't long before the owners of other freight vessels realized the value of such an installation. Now, every freight boat that amounts to much has the wireless aboard." "You speak of the wireless being used at a distance of two or three hundred miles," pursued the charter-man. "Dawson can't send the electric wave that far, can he?" "No, sir; because our signal mast is shorter than that on a big steamship. The length of our aerials is less. Still, we can handle a message for a pretty good distance." "What distance, Halstead?" "Why, our ideal distance is about sixty miles; we can make it seventy easily, and, under the best conditions, we can drive a message, so that it can be understood, for about ninety miles. But that doesn't really hold us down to even ninety miles. If there's a wireless ship within our radius we can ask her to relay for us. With a few ships spread out at proper intervals we could easily wire direct from the 'Restless' to the coast of England." "Joe," called Tom to his chum as the latter came on deck between wireless performances, "do you notice that the fog is lightening off to weatherward?" "Yes; the fog is heaviest off to westward, and we've been working out of that." "By the time we reach the 'Glide' I believe we're going to have some open weather around us." "It will be fine if we do," nodded young Dawson. "It's nasty work going up alongside of a big ship when you can't see fifty feet away." As they watched and waited, while the "Restless" stole slowly along, the fog about them became steadily lighter, though off to the westward it remained a thick, dense bank. "Say, it'd be great to have four or five miles of clear sea around us, so that we could see whether the seventy-foot boat has kept to anything like our course," declared Hank. At last the "Restless" came to within twenty minutes' hailing distance of the "Glide," as the young motor boat skipper figured it. Then, a few minutes later, a deep-toned fog-horn came to them faintly. As the minutes passed, now, this blast became heavier and nearer. "I've only a few minutes left with you, Joe, old chum," declared Captain Tom, with a half-sigh. "You'll take great, good care of the dear old craft, I know, while I'm gone." "As soon as Mr. Seaton is done with the boat I'll tie her up until you get back--that's what I'll do," grunted Dawson. "No sailing without a skipper for me." "You needn't look so bad about it, Cap," grinned Hepton. "I wish it was me, cut out for a long trip to Rio and back. Maybe I wouldn't jump at such a chance. Some folks are born lucky!" Too-woo-oo! The oncoming steamship's deep fog-horn sounded loud and sullen, now. Tom Halstead, still at the wheel, was peering constantly forward for the first glimpse of the freighter, for the fog had lightened much by this time. "There she is!" hailed keen-eyed Joe, on the lookout for this sight. "You can just make out her bow poking up through the fog. She must be a thousand feet off yet." With two boats approaching each other, this distance was, of course, quickly covered. Finding that he could see the other craft at such a distance, Skipper Tom threw on a little more speed, making a wide turn and so coming up alongside on a parallel course. "Take the wheel, Hank," directed the young skipper, seizing the megaphone and stepping to the port rail. "'Glide,' ahoy!" bawled Halstead through the megaphone. "'Restless,' ahoy!" came back from the freighter's bridge. "Lie to and let us come alongside, won't you? We want to put a passenger aboard." "Passenger? Where for?" "Rio, of course. That's where you're bound, isn't it?" "You'll have to be mighty quick about it," came the emphatic answer. "We can't afford stops on our way." "We may want to delay you a few minutes," began Tom. "Few minutes, nothing!" came the gruff retort. "We can't be held up in that fashion." "We can pay for all the trouble we put you to," retorted Halstead. Powell Seaton produced and waved a bulky wad of banknotes. "Oh, if you want to pay extra, above the fare, it'll be a little different," came, in mollified tones, from the bridge. The captain of the "Glide" was now much more accommodating. The fare received from a passenger put aboard in mid-sea would go to the owners of the freighter. But any extra money, paid for "trouble," would be so much in the pocket of the "Glide's" sailing-master. Several new faces appeared at the rail of the freighter, as that big craft slowed down and one of her mates superintended the work of lowering the side gangway. "Hullo, lobster-smack!" roared one derisive voice above the freighter's rail. "Say," called another voice, jeeringly, "it may be all right to go lobster-fishing, but it's no sort of good business to leave one of your catch of lobsters in command of even a smack like that!" Tom Halstead reddened angrily. One of his fists clenched unconsciously as he shot a wrathful look upward at the rail. "Say, you mentally-dented pilot of a fourth-rate peanut roaster of a boat, do you go by craft you know without ever giving a hail?" demanded a mocking voice, that of the first derisive speaker. Standing at the rail of the "Restless," Tom Halstead almost dropped the megaphone overboard from the sheer stagger of joy that caught him. "Hey, you Ab! You worthless Ab Perkins!" roared the young motor boat skipper, in huge delight. "And you, Dick Davis!" The two who stood at the "Glide's" rail overhead, and who had called down so mockingly, stood in uniform caps and coats identical with those worn by Halstead and his mates aboard the motor boat. They wore them with right, too, for Perkins and Davis were two of the most famous of the many youngsters who now composed the Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec. "Hey! What's this?" roared the usually quiet Joe Dawson, his face wreathed in smiles. He almost danced a jig. Hank Butts had never before seen either Davis or Perkins, but he knew about them, all right. He knew that uniform, too, the same that he wore. "Now, then--altogether!" yelled Hank. "Give it with a roar, boys!" Powell Seaton stared in bewildered amazement. So did officers, crew and others at the "Glide's" rail and on her bridge. For five lusty young Americans, all wearing the same uniform, all bronzed deeply with the tan that comes of the gale and the sun, all keen-eyed, quick and sure as tars ever are, roared in mighty chorus: "M-B-C-K! M-B-C-K! Motor Boat Club! WOW!" _ |
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