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THE BRIGHTON BOYS IN THE RADIO SERVICE
by
LIEUTENANT JAMES R. DRISCOLL
Illustrated
[Illustration: "At Least Ten Thousand of Them," He Announced.]
The John C. Winston Company
Philadelphia
Copyright, 1918, by
John C. Winston Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. "FOR UNCLE SAM" 9
II. INTO THE SERVICE--A SPY 21
III. UNEXPECTED ACTION 34
IV. FAREWELL, UNITED STATES 43
V. THE FIGHT IN THE WIRELESS ROOM 54
VI. THE MYSTERY OF THE IRON CROSS 67
VII. THE TIMELY RESCUE 77
VIII. THE DEATH OF THE SPY 88
IX. THE PERISCOPE AT DAWN 101
X. FRANCE AT LAST 110
XI. TAPPING THE ENEMY'S WIRE 118
XII. THE S O S WITH PISTOL SHOTS 131
XIII. THE CAVE OF DEATH 140
XIV. DESPERATE MEASURES 153
XV. THE SURPRISE ATTACK--PROMOTION 164
XVI. A TIGHT PLACE 176
XVII. THE LIEUTENANT'S INVENTION 191
XVIII. SLIM GOODWIN A PRISONER 200
XIX. TURNING THE TABLES 211
XX. THE GREAT NEWS 221
ILLUSTRATIONS
"At Least Ten Thousand of Them," He Announced Frontispiece
PAGE
There was an Instant of Terrible Whirling
about the Room 66
They had Accidentally Discovered an Enemy
Wire and had Tapped It 130
Scores of Huge Armored Tanks Rolled Through 168
The Brighton Boys in the Radio Service
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 substitution 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
substituted 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 assistance 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--pass 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.
"The Signal Corps is our choice," said Joe, speaking for all, "but how
do we go about getting into it?"
"I think I can arrange that," Mr. Burton informed them. "You boys have
been studying telegraphy under me for more than six months, and I'm
willing to certify that each of you can now handle an instrument. In
addition to that, you are able to take down messages on the typewriter
as they come over the wire. Yes, sir," Mr. Burton finished, "I think
your Uncle Sam will be mighty glad to get three such lads as you, and I
know the recruiting agent to put the thing through."
So it was arranged that the three lads should return to the dormitory,
write the letters which were to procure them the desired permission to
enlist, and then inform the headmaster of their intentions.
Joe and Jerry, who had roomed together throughout their entire three
years at Brighton, already were well on with their epistles of
explanation when Slim, whose room was seven doors down the corridor,
dragged himself in, looking more downcast than any boy in Brighton ever
had seen him look before.
"No use," he informed his two friends, a choke in his voice. "They won't
have me. I'm overweight."
"Oh, now, Slim, what are you worrying about that for? I don't believe
any such thing," counseled Joe.
"It's true, though," affirmed Slim. "That's the worst part of it; I saw
it in the book. I'm toting around about twenty pounds more than the
government wants, and I'd have to stand on tiptoe in high-heel shoes to
meet the requirement in height."
Poor Slim! He showed his disappointment in every look and every action.
"What kind of a book did you see it in?" asked Jerry, in a tone almost
as sad as Slim's.
"In the manual," Slim groaned. "Herb Wallace showed it to me."
"That settles it," exclaimed Joe. "If Herb Wallace had a hand in it
anywhere there's something wrong. I'll tell you what we'll do, fellows.
We'll go and ask the headmaster."
Now the headmaster of Brighton had once been a boy himself. He could be
stern, even cruelly severe, when occasion demanded, but he was kind of
heart and broad of understanding.
Before him the three lads laid their case, as before the final tribunal.
"H'm," said he, when all the details had been related and the
all-important information asked. "You say Herbert Wallace showed you
this in a manual?"
Slim solemnly affirmed that that was the case.
The headmaster pushed a button on the side of his desk and in a few
seconds his secretary, a big, bluff fellow, appeared.
"Bring Herbert Wallace here at once," said the headmaster. And in five
more minutes, while the headmaster was shrewdly questioning the three
lads as to the seriousness of their determination to enlist, the
secretary returned, accompanied by young Wallace, flushed and
shamefaced.
"Well, Wallace," said the principal of Brighton, "I hear you've been
studying up on military subjects. Intending to get into the fight?"
Herbert Wallace hung his head and muttered an unintelligible reply.
"Now look here, Wallace," spoke the headmaster sternly, "where did you
get the military manual from which you gave Goodwin the information that
he could not pass the examination for the army?"
"I--I got it from the library, sir."
"Got it without permission, too, didn't you?" pursued the headmaster.
"Yes, sir," said Wallace, in confusion.
"And didn't know that it was out of date, and that the requirements were
completely changed after the United States entered this war, eh?"
"No, sir," answered Wallace, on the verge of a breakdown.
"I'll decide upon your punishment later," announced the headmaster.
"See me here at four o'clock. Meanwhile, Wallace, be careful where you
get information, and be careful how you dispense it."
And Herbert Wallace, utterly humiliated, was glad to flee from the room.
"I don't think," said the headmaster, "that any of you will have
difficulty passing the examinations. I dislike to see you go, but you
speak the truth when you say that your country does need you, and I pay
a great tribute of respect to you for the patriotism and courage with
which you step forth to shoulder your obligations. Others already have
gone from Brighton. Still others will go in the future. God bless all of
you, and may you return safe and sound to reap the full benefits of the
democracy for which you are going to fight."
The suspicion of tears dimmed the kindly eyes of the headmaster, and
each boy choked up as he bade him good-by.
But, after all, this was no time for sadness. Young gladiators were
going forth to the fray. And so we will skip over the farewells the
following day, in which the parents of each lad, with many a heartache
but never a word of discouragement, bade the boys Godspeed in the
service of their country.
The three lads, together with fifteen others, formed a detachment of the
recently enlisted who were to go to the Philadelphia Navy Yard for
further assignment. Just before the train pulled out a students' parade
that seemed to include every boy in Brighton marched to the station to
see them off.
One of the lads carried a large transparency on which was printed:
"THEY BRIGHTEN THE FAME OF BRIGHTON"
And just as the train pulled out, and there was great cheering and
waving of hats and handkerchiefs, Joe, Jerry and Slim, leaning from
adjoining windows, sang out in chorus:
"For Uncle Sam."