THE INTERRUPTED MESSAGE
Jack sprang to his feet, but the other held out a withholding hand.
“Stay right where you are, Mr. Ready,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep and I
decided to sit out your watch up here with you. You’ve no objection?”
“I’m sorry,” said Jack, for after all Jarrold was a passenger and it
would not do to offend him if he could help it, “but it is against the
rules for passengers to linger about the wireless room.”
“Well, I can write a message, then. You have no objection to that?”
Jack was in a quandary. He knew perfectly well that Jarrold was there
for some purpose of his own, but what it was—except that its aim was
sinister—he could not hazard a conjecture.
“Of course the office is always open for business,” he rejoined, pushing
a stack of sending blanks toward Jarrold.
“Of course,” replied Jarrold, sinking into a chair beside the young
operator. “By the way, nothing from the _Endymion_ yet?”
“That is the business of the line so far, sir,” replied Jack. “If it is
anything of general interest, you will find the notice posted on the
bulletin board at the head of the saloon stairs in the morning.”
Jarrold made no reply to this, but sat absent-mindedly tapping his
gleaming white teeth with a gold-cased pencil as if considering what he
should write on the blank paper before him. He appeared to be in no
hurry to begin, but fumbling for his cigar case, produced a big black
weed and leisurely lighted it, puffing out the heavy smoke with an
abstracted air.
“Sorry, sir,” struck in Jack sharply, “but you can’t smoke in here,
sir.”
“Why not?”
“It is against the rules.”
“Where do you see such a rule? Reckon you made it, eh? Too much of a
molly-coddle to smoke, hey?”
The man’s tone was aggressive, offensive. The subtle objection to him
that Jack had felt when they first met was growing with every minute.
But he kept his temper. It was with an effort, however.
“There are the rules on the wall,” he said.
“Humph,” said Jarrold, with a disgusted grunt. “In that case I’ll throw
my cigar away. But one always helps me to think.”
“Personally, I’ve always heard that tobacco dulls the brain,” retorted
Jack, “but never having tried it, and not wanting to, I don’t know how
true it is.”
Jarrold made no reply to this, but a contemptuous snort. He unfolded his
big, loose-knit frame from the chair and went toward the door. He flung
the cigar into the night. As he did so, there was a blinding flash of
lightning. The rain was coming in torrents now, but the wind and sea
were dying down.
The man came back to his chair and again appeared to be considering the
message he should send out.
“I have my doubts about getting a message through to-night at all,”
hinted Jack. “The rain doesn’t always interfere with the Hertzian waves
but sometimes it does. Maybe you would better wait till morning.”
“I’ll send it when I choose,” was the growled reply.
At that instant Jack’s hand suddenly shot out across the desk in front
of him and turned the switch that sent the current into the detectors.
Faintly, out of the storm, some whispered dots and dashes had breathed
against his ear-drums. Somebody was trying to send a radio.
Jarrold’s lounging figure stiffened up quickly. He had seen Jack’s
sudden motion and guessed its meaning. He leaned forward eagerly while
the young operator tuned his instruments till the message beat more
strongly on his ears.
Through the storm the message came raggedly but it was intelligible.
“_Tropic Queen! Tropic Queen! Tropic Queen!_”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” flung back the boy at the liner’s key. “Who is that?”
“Are you the _Tropic Queen_?”
The sending of the call across the storm was uncertain and hesitating;
not the work of a competent operator, but still understandable.
“Yes, this is the _Tropic Queen_.”
The answer that came made Jack thrill up and down his spine.
“This is the _Endymion_!”
Then came a pause that vibrated. Jack pounded his key furiously. The
sending on the other craft was bad, and the waves that were beating
against the aërials of the _Tropic Queen_ were weak. Although rain does
not necessarily hamper the power of the Hertzian billows, and all things
being equal the transmission of messages is clearer at night, yet
certain combinations may result in poor service.
The spark writhed and squealed and glared with a lambent blue flame as
it leaped like a serpent of fire between the points.
But even above its loud, insistent voice calling into the tempest-ridden
night could be heard the deep, quick breathing of Jarrold as he leaned
forward to catch every move of the young operator’s fingers.
“This is the _Endymion_,” came again.
“Yes! Yes!” flashed back Jack.
“Have you a passenger named Jarrold on board?”
Jack’s heart and pulses gave a bound. Jarrold was leaning forward till
his bristling chin almost touched Jack’s cheek. The man’s hand stole
back toward his hip pocket and stayed there.
“Yes, what do you want with him?”
“We—have—a—message—for him,” came the halting reply.
Jack’s fingers were on the key to reply when the quick, harsh voice of
Jarrold came in his ear.
“That’s the _Endymion_. No monkey business now. Send what I tell you.
I——”
There was a sudden blinding flash from the instruments and a blaze of
blue, hissing fire filled the wireless room.
Jarrold and the young wireless man staggered back, their hands flung
across their faces to shield their eyes from the scorching glare. It was
all over in an instant—just one flash and that upheaval of light.
“The aërials have gone!” cried Jack.
He darted from the wireless room, leaving Jarrold alone, a look of
frustrated purpose in his eyes.