The Brighton Boys in the Radio Service Part 1

The Brighton Boys in the Radio Service.

by James R. Driscoll.

CHAPTER I

"FOR UNCLE SAM"

"Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their----"

It was that old practice sentence of typists, which is as old as are typewriting machines, and Joe Harned, seated before the told-style, noisy, but still capable machine in Philip Burton's telegraph office, had rattled it off twenty-five times and was on his twenty-sixth when suddenly, very suddenly, his mind began to work.

Or rather it might be said that an idea, the _big idea_, danced unceremoniously into his brain, and, beginning to take definite and concrete form, chased a score of other smaller ideas through all the thought-channels of his handsome, boyish, well-rounded head.

He came to a full stop and gazed steadily at the upturned paper in the typewriter in front of him. Twenty-fives times he had written that sentence, and twenty-five times with mechanical precision and true adherence to time-honored custom he had finished it by tapping off the word "party."

It was a formula of words which some genius had devised for the fingering practice it gave one on the keyboard, and Joe Harned had written it hundreds of times before, just as thousands of others had done, without giving a thought to its meaning, or the significance that the subst.i.tution of a single word would give it.

He read it again, and as if it were the result of an uncontrollable impulse, his fingers began the rapid tap-tap-tap. And this time he subst.i.tuted the new word that the _big idea_ had suddenly thrust into his mind.

Joe gave the roller a twirl, the paper rolled out, dropped to the floor, and he grasped for it eagerly.

Even Joe was surprised. He hadn't realized that in his enthusiastic haste he had pushed down the key marked "caps."

In bold, outstanding letters near the bottom of the sheet was an historic sentence, and Joe Harned--Harned, of Brighton Academy--had devised it.

"NOW IS THE TIME FOR ALL GOOD MEN TO COME TO THE AID OF THEIR COUNTRY!"

Joe gazed at it again for a moment, and then let his eyes travel across the little office to where red-headed, freckle-faced, big-hearted and impetuous Jerry Macklin was rapping away at another typewriter, and, two feet away from Jerry, "Slim" Goodwin, "one-hundred-and-seventy pounds in his stockinged feet, and five-feet-four in his gym suit," was working the telegraph key with a pudgy hand.

"Jerry!" he called. "Oh, Slim! Come over here a moment, both of you. I want to show you something."

Jerry immediately ceased typewriting, but Slim was reluctant to release the telegraph key. However, as Joe began folding the paper in such a way that only the last sentence showed, their aroused curiosity brought both of them to his side.

"Read that," said Joe, trying to suppress the quiver in his voice, and holding the paper up before them. "Read it carefully."

One lad on either side of him, they hung over Joe's shoulder and followed his bidding.

"Right!" shouted Jerry, as he came to the last word. "Joe, you're a wizard, and what you've written there is the truth."

"Ain't it--I mean isn't it?" added the delicate Slim Goodwin, and, partly to hide his grammatical error, but mostly to express his enthusiasm, he gave Joe a one-hundred-and-seventy-pound whack on the back that sent him sliding out of the chair and half way under the typewriter table.

"Say!" Joe remonstrated. But just then Philip Burton, telegraph operator and genial good friend of all three of the lads, bustled into the room, a sheaf of yellow telegrams in his hand.

"What's all the excitement?" he asked, striding toward the typewriter just left by Jerry.

"Why," explained Slim, "Joe's just done something that means something."

"Impossible," said Mr. Burton, turning toward them with one of those irresistible smiles which long ago had made him the boys' confidant.

"If you don't believe it, read this," commanded Jerry, thrusting the paper before the telegrapher's eyes.

Mr. Burton read it through and then turned to the three boys again.

"Well?" he asked.

"It means what it says," explained Jerry. "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country."

"And we're 'good men,' ain't--aren't we?" demanded Slim, drawing in his stomach and throwing out his chest as he straightened up to his full five-feet-four-inches "in his gym suit."

"None better anywhere," said Mr. Burton in a tone that showed he meant it. "But just how do you contemplate going to the aid of your country?"

It was Joe's turn to say something, and he did. "By enlisting," he announced, briefly but firmly.

"Yes," agreed Slim, "that's it, by enlisting."

"Uh-huh," said Jerry, nodding his head vigorously and watching Mr.

Burton's face for evidence of the effect of their decision.

"And when did you determine upon that?" the telegrapher asked, with increasing interest.

"Well," said Slim, his face now painfully red from his efforts to keep chest out and stomach in, "it was finally decided upon just now, although we have talked about the thing in a general way many times."

"You really mean to enlist--all three of you?" Mr. Burton demanded.

"Yes, sir," they chorused, "all three."

"Good!" exclaimed the man who had been their friend and helper. "Fine!

I'm proud of you," and he proceeded to shake hands heartily with each in turn.

"Have you decided upon the branch of the service you intend to enter?"

he then asked.

Joe looked at Jerry, Jerry looked at Slim, and Slim cast a helpless glance back at Joe.

"I see you haven't," said Mr. Burton hastily, "and I'm glad of it. Now how about the Signal Corps?"

"What do men in the Signal Corps do?" asked Jerry.

"Do they fight?" demanded Slim.

"Yes," Mr. Burton replied, "they do some fighting on their own account, and often in tough places and against discouraging odds. But they do even more than that. Without their a.s.sistance no general would dare lay plans for a battle. The Signal Corps keeps the commanders posted, not only as to the whereabouts and disposition of his own troops, but also of those of the enemy. The Signal Corps is the telephone, the telegraph, the wireless, and often the aviation section as well, of the American army, and often of the American navy, too."

"Isn't that great?" exclaimed the breathless Slim, as Mr. Burton went over to the ticker to answer the code call for his station.

During the ten minutes that he was engaged in receiving and sending messages, the boys perfected plans for notifying their relatives of their intention. Had their attention not been so entirely taken by the subject under discussion they would have seen Herbert Wallace--another and very unpopular student at Brighton--pa.s.s by the office window, stop for a moment to stare at them, and then step away quickly in the direction of the door, near which they were standing.

"Well, what's the verdict?" asked Mr. Burton, having finished his duties.