A NEW JOB
For a few moments Tom stood gaping at the receding figures, with Mr.
Conne's remark ringing in his ears: _I shall expect you to tell me what
became of the young fellow who happened to discover you down below last
night._
Was that the possible explanation of the missing wireless boy? The
thought of this complication shocked him. What could it mean? The
detective had evidently fitted the whole thing together.
Finger-prints were finger-prints, thought Tom, and a finger-print with
illegible markings in the center meant a telegraph operator, so far as
this particular incident was concerned. He so greatly admired Mr. Conne
that as usual he forgot to admire himself....
The man must have been discovered, either in the act of placing the
bomb, or perhaps of trying to remove it when he found that he must sail
with the ship, and there had been a scuffle and----
And what? Where was the wireless boy?
Alas, though the spy was apprehended, it was to be many long months
before the mystery of the missing wireless boy should be cleared up. And
who, of all the people in the world, do you suppose cleared it up? Who
but Pee-wee Harris (don't laugh) and his trusty belt-axe. But that is
part of another story.
The arrest of "Dr. Curry" as a German spy and plotter was a nine hours'
wonder on the ship, and the part which Tom Slade had played in the
affair did not pass without comment. Neither the ship's officers nor Mr.
Conne took him into their confidence as to the character of the papers
found on the "doctor," but he understood that that scornful personage
was safely lodged somewhere "below," and Mr. Conne did go so far as to
tell him that "our friend" had set his watch right. Tom did not dare to
ask questions, even of his friend the detective, who chatted pleasantly
with him whenever they met.
He was the last boy in the world to expect more consideration than was
due him or to make much of his own exploits, and if his superiors did
not take him into partnership and make him their confidant and adviser,
as undoubtedly they would have done in a story, they at least treated
him with rather more consideration than is usually given to ships' boys,
and the awkward young fellow in the ill-fitting duck jacket and peaked
hat askew was pointed out among the army men and passengers, as he
occasionally passed along the decks, as one who had a head on his
shoulders and a pair of eyes in his head.
No one questioned that he had saved the vessel by making known the clew
which had sent Dr. Curry to the ship's lock-up, and Tom, satisfied to
have done something worth while for Uncle Sam, attended to his menial
duties, and did not think of very much else.
But if Uncle Sam's Secret Service man had thought it best not to be too
confidential with him, kind Fate decreed that it should be Tom Slade and
none other who should clinch the case against this foreign wretch whose
plans he had thwarted.
It happened the very next day, beginning with a circumstance which made
Tom feel indeed like a hero in a cheap thriller.
"The captain wants to see you," said a young officer from the bridge, as
Tom sat with his flippant but now humble admirer, Archibald Archer, upon
one of the after-hatches.
"Me?" stammered Tom.
"He's going to make you first mate," said Archer, "and give you ten
thousand dollars--go ahead."
"What?" said Tom.
"That's the way they do in the _Dick Dauntless Series_; go ahead--beat
it!"
Tom followed the officer forward and up those awful steps which led to
the holy of holies where the master of the ship held his autocratic
sway.
The captain sat in a sumptuously furnished cabin, and Tom stood before
him, holding his cap in one hand, clutching his long, starched sleeve
with the other, and greatly awed at the surroundings.
"You said something about understanding wireless," said the captain. "Do
you think you could be of assistance to the operator?"
"I ain't--I'm not an operator," stammered Tom, "but I know the American
code and the International code and some of the International
abbreviations. I can send and receive with my own instrument, but it's a
kind of--not exactly a toy, but----"
"Hmm. What I mean is, could you work under the operator's direction, so
that he could get a little sleep now and then? He'd sleep right in the
wireless room."
Tom hesitated.
"I don't--I don't know if I should say, Aye, aye, sir--I hear some of
'em doin' that," said Tom awkwardly.
"You mean, yes, you can?" said the captain, with the faintest suggestion
of a smile.
"Yes, I--as long as he's right there with me--yes, sir, I think I
could."
"Well, then, you go down there now, and I'll notify the steward."
Tom half turned, then hesitated, clutching his sleeve tighter. "I--I got
to thank you," said he.
The captain nodded. "All right; keep your mouth shut, do your best,
don't make mistakes, and remember we're at war. And maybe we'll have to
thank you," he added.
"It's--it's helping in the war, isn't it?" Tom asked.
The captain nodded. For a moment Tom had a wild notion of asking whether
he might continue in the wireless room when the ship was taken over for
regular transport service, but he did not dare.
Those who saw him as he went back along the deck saw only the
stolid-looking, awkward young fellow in the stiff white jacket three
sizes too large for him who had come to be a familiar figure about the
ship. And they did not know that the heart of Tom Slade was beating
again with hope and joy just as it had beat when he had listened to Mr.
Temple and when he stood looking down from the office window into Barrel
Alley. And if his hopes and triumphs should be dashed again, they would
not know that either ...
On the deck he met Mr. Conne.
"Well, I see the captain beat me to it," said he. "I was thinking of
working you into secret service work, but never mind, there's time
enough."
"Maybe I won't satisfy them; sometimes I make mistakes," said Tom. "I
made a mistake when I went into the wrong store-room, if it comes to
that. They always called me Bull-head, the fellers in the troop did."
Mr. Conne cocked his head sideways, screwed his cigar over to the
extreme corner of his mouth, and looked at Tom with a humorous scrutiny.
"Did they?" said he. "All right, Tommy, Uncle Sam and I mean to keep our
eyes on you, just the same."
So at last the cup of joy was full again--and that same night it
overflowed. For as Tom Slade sat at the wireless table, while his new
companion slept in his berth near by, there jumped before his eyes a
blue, dazzling spark which told him that some one, somewhere, had
something to say to him across the water and through the black, silent
night.
Quickly he adjusted the receivers on his ears and waited. The clamorous
buzzing sound caused the other operator to open his eyes and raise his
sleepy head to his elbow.
Dash, dash, dash--dash, dot, dot, dot.
"What is it?" said the operator sleepily.
"Official business abbreviation," said Tom. "I'll take it--lie down."
It was no more than right that he should take it.
Hold Adolf von Stebel using passport Curry if on board. Tall,
black mustache. Wanted for plotting and arson. New York.
"Huh!" said the chief operator sleepily. "Ring for a cabin boy and send
it up to the bridge. Sign your own initials. G-good-night."