The Boys of the Wireless Part 7

Never did a boy spend a more entrancing day than Ben Dixon. His helpers at the blasted oak were delighted to climb like monkeys to remove the spirals and wires from the old tree, and handle the queer contrivances contained in the box Mr. Edson had donated.

Harry Ashley spent the day between working about the farm, visiting the scene of activity at the Dixon place, and limping up to the tower.

Only some exchange test calls came to Station Z that day. Tom was encouraged to find how quickly he could read them, and send the necessary replies.

Nearly every lad in the neighborhood was on hand that evening, when Tom arrived at the Dixon place, and began to connect the various devices of the wireless outfit. It took into the next day fully to adjust the various parts.

Ben was in a rare fever of excitement and expectancy the second evening about seven o'clock, when Tom announced to him that the finishing touches of the experiment were in process.

"She's all there, Ben," he said triumphantly, as he drew smooth the tinfoil tongues of the setts of the coherer. "I'll run down to Station Z and give you a call to see if she works all right."

Ben Dixon stood staring fixedly at the apparatus rigged up in a shed running up to the spirals strung to tree tops near the old barn. Six ardent watchers sat astride a bench, mouths agape and eyes bolting from their heads, resembling lads awaiting the touching of a match to a powder mine.

Finally a thrill ran instantaneously from the metallic poles through the vibrating parts of the apparatus. As one after another the boys listened at the telephone-like receiver, they heard the tell-tale dots and dashes.

"Hurrah!" shouted Ben Dixon in a frenzy of wild delight.

CHAPTER VI-A TIP VIA WIRELESS

"This means business!" exclaimed Tom.

What Mr. Edson had predicted had happened-a stray message that meant something, the accidental discovery of news perhaps of vast importance to the person for whom it was intended.

The young wireless operator was a quick thinker. The call was for O-17.

Tom knew from hearsay where that station was located.

Mr. Morgan had a large stock farm a little outside of a small hamlet called Deepdale. That settlement had no telephone or telegraph service.

It was located nearly twenty miles from a railroad station and any stranger sojourning there was temporarily outside of civilization so far as communication with the world was concerned.

Tom was aware of all this. He readily figured out as well why the message had been sent per wireless to Station O-17. This was operated on a high point of rocks directly on the coast outside of Deepdale. It was one of a regular chain in the coast service.

The sender in New York City had some reason for believing that Mr.

Morgan was at his stock farm and not at his home at Fernwood, near Rockley Cove. It was imperative that he get in communication with him within an hour. He had risked all on the message finding Mr. Morgan at Deepdale.

"Why, I met Mr. Morgan this morning in his automobile coming from the direction of Deepdale," soliloquized Tom. "He must have changed his plans. No delay now. This must be important."

Tom trusted to his memory as to the subject matter of the wireless message. As he hastily descended from the tower, however, he repeated it over mentally to make sure he would not forget any salient point.

"The message mentioned 'U. Cal.'," breathed Tom. "I can guess what that means."

To his way of thinking it meant "United Calcium." Only two days previous in the Rockley Cove _Weekly Clarion_ Tom had read a bit of current gossip about the present subject of his thoughts.

The item had referred to some late investments of the retired capitalist. It specifically cited the fact that "our esteemed townsman,"

Mr. Walter Morgan, it was rumored, was negotiating for the control of the stock of the United Calcium Company. The investment, it was stated, would involve nearly a quarter of a million dollars of capital.

Now it appeared the partner or business representative of Mr. Morgan in New York City had discovered a flaw in the proposition, and had anxiously and urgently wired for instructions.

Station Z was just two miles from Fernwood, the summer home of the Morgans. It lay directly on the ocean, and was a straight course. Tom thought of Grace Morgan as he braced up for a vigorous walk. That was quite natural, for they were good friends. He lamented that he was not in very dressy shape to meet the dainty little miss, whom he would probably find in the pink of perfection as to garb and appearance, as she generally was.

"Can't help it, this is business," decided Tom grimly. "Maybe I won't meet her," he added hopefully.

Tom undertook a big spurt of speed. As he came to Silver Creek, two school chums getting ready to start fishing yelled at him.

"Hey, Tom!" cried one mandatorily.

"Yes, we want you," piped the other.

"Can't stop," panted Tom, waving his hand, and speeding on as if he were entered for a Marathon.

"I've lost no time, that's sure," he decided as he pa.s.sed the boathouse at the end of the private pier belonging to Fernwood.

Tom came to the terrace in front of the Morgan mansion. A fluttering white dress attracted his attention from the front porch of the house, and Grace came into view.

"Why, Tom!" she said in a genuine friendly welcome. "Come up and sit down. You look tired out."

"Yes, been running hard," explained Tom, short-breathed and excited.

"Must see your father."

"Father?" repeated Grace, quite surprised.

"Yes, Mr. Morgan, is he at home?"

"Why, no, Tom."

"Where will I find him, then?"

"Why, you are so excited, Tom!"

"Reason to be," gulped Tom. "Please don't delay. It's important."

"Papa just left in the automobile for Springville. There is a meeting of bank directors there, he told me. There's the horn now."

"Excuse me," said Tom hastily, and bolted unceremoniously around the side of the house where the announcement from the automobile had echoed.

Pretty Miss Morgan looked amazed, and tapped her daintily slippered foot in a vexed way at the ungallant disappearance of her acquaintance. Tom, however, did not wait for explanations. He had caught sight of the Morgan automobile. It was just pa.s.sing upon the roadway leading west from the rear of the grounds.

"Hold on-stop!" yelled Tom irrepressibly.

The puffing of the newly-started machine apparently drowned out his hail. The hood of the tonneau shut Tom out from sight of Mr. Morgan and his chauffeur.

Tom ran no farther after the rapidly-gliding car. He saw in a flash that his only chance of stopping it was by a sharp swift dash diagonally to a point where the circling road cut south. He speeded reckless of flower beds and fences on his mission, flew heedless of mud and water through an obstructing swale, and, breathless and pretty nearly exhausted, gained the main-road.

Honk! honk!-not a hundred yards distant the chauffeur sounded a warning as Tom sprang into the middle of the highway, waving his arms violently to call a halt.