WIRELESS CONVERSATIONS
Sam was looking over Jack’s shoulder as the young wireless chief of the
_Tropic Queen_ rapidly transcribed the message on a blank.
“Phew! Trouble on the way, eh?” he asked.
“Looks like it. But we need not worry, with a craft like this under our
feet.”
But Sam looked apprehensive.
“What is the trouble? Not scared, are you?” asked Jack, who knew that,
excellent operator though he had shown himself to be, this was Sam’s
first deep-sea voyage.
“N-no. Not that,” hesitated Sam, “but seasickness, you know. And I ate
an awful big dinner.”
“Well, don’t bother about that now. Lots of fellows who have never been
to sea before don’t get sick.”
“I hope that will be my case,” Sam replied, without much assurance in
his voice.
“Here, take this to the captain; hurry it along now,” said Jack, handing
him the dispatch. “I guess he’ll be interested. Wait a minute,” he added
suddenly. “There’s the _Tennyson_ of the Lamport & Holt line talking to
the _Dorothea_ of the United Fruit, and the battleship _Iowa_ is cutting
in. All talking weather.”
It was true. From ship to ship, borne on soundless waves, the news was
being eagerly discussed.
“Big storm on the way,” announced the _Tennyson_.
“We should worry,” came flippantly through the ether from the
_Dorothea_.
“You little fellows better take in your sky-sails and furl your funnels;
you’ll be blown about like chicken feathers in a gale of wind,” came
majestically from Uncle Sam’s big warship.
Then the air was filled with a clamor for more news from the Neptune
Beach operator.
“You fellows give me a pain,” he flashed out, depressing and releasing
his key snappily. “I’ve sent out all I can. Don’t you think I know my
job?”
“Let us know at once when you get anything more,” came commandingly from
the battleship.
“Oh, you _Iowa_, boss of the job, aren’t you?” remarked the flippant
_Dorothea_.
“M-M-M!” (laughter) in the wireless man’s code came from all the others,
Jack included. The air was vibrant with silent chuckles.
“Say, you fellows, what is going on?” came a fresh voice. Oh, yes, every
wireless operator has a “voice.” No two men in the world send alike.
“Hello, who are you?” snapped out Neptune Beach.
“_British King_, of the King Line, Liverpool for Philadelphia. Let us in
on this, will you? What you got?”
“Big storm. Affect all vessels within three hundred miles of Hatteras.
This is Neptune Beach.”
“Thanks, old chap. Won’t bother us, don’t you know,” came back from the
_British King_, whose operator was English. “Kind regards to you
fellows. Hope you don’t get too jolly well bunged up if it hits you.”
“Thanks, Johnny Bull,” from the _Dorothea_. “I reckon we can stand
anything your old steam tea-kettle can.”
The wireless chat ceased. Sam hastened forward to the sacred precincts
of the captain’s cabin, while Jack went below to his belated dinner. As
he went he noticed that the sea was beginning to heave as the dusk
settled down, and the ship was plunging heavily. The wind, too, was
rising. The social hall was brilliantly lighted. From within came
strains of music from the ship’s orchestra. Through the ports, as he
passed along to the saloon companionway, Jack could see men and women in
evening clothes, and could catch snatches of gay conversation and
laughter.
“Humph,” he thought, “if you’d just heard what I have, a whole lot of
you would be getting the doctor to fix you up seasick remedies.”
In the meantime Sam, cap in hand, presented the message to the captain.
The great man took it and read it attentively.
“This isn’t a surprise to me,” said Captain McDonald, “the glass has
been falling since mid-afternoon. Stand by your instruments, lad, and
let me know everything of importance that you catch.”
“Very well, sir.” Sam, who stood in great awe of the captain, touched
his cap and hastened back. He adjusted his “ear muffs,” but could catch
no floating message. The air was silent. He sent a call for Neptune
Beach, but the operator there told him indignantly not to plague him
with questions.
“I’ll send out anything new when I get it,” he said. “Gimme a chance to
eat. I’m no weather prophet, anyhow. I only relay reports from the
government sharps, and they’re wrong half the time. Crack!”
Sam could sense the big spark that crashed across the instruments at
Neptune Beach as the indignant and hungry operator there, harassed by
half a dozen ships for more news, smashed down his sending key.