CUNNING SCOUNDRELS
But, contrary to the expectations of the radio boys, the police were not
able to locate Cassey nor any of the rest of the gang. They searched the
woods for miles around the old barn about which the boys had told them,
even carrying their search into the neighboring townships, but without
any result. It seemed as though the earth had opened and swallowed up
Cassey together with his rascally companions. If such a thing had
actually happened, their disappearance could not have been more
complete.
"They must be experts in the art of hiding," grumbled Bob, upon
returning from a visit to the chief of police. "I was certain they would
be rounded up before this."
"Guess they must have made a break for the tall timber," said Joe.
"Decided, maybe, it isn't just healthy around here," added Herb, with a
grin.
And then, just when they had decided that Cassey and his gang had made a
masterly getaway, the radio boys got on their trail once again.
That very evening, when tuning in for the concert, they caught another
of those mysterious, stuttering messages in the unmistakable voice of
Dan Cassey!
"Rice, rats, make hay," was the substance of this message, and the boys
would have laughed if they had not been so dumbfounded.
"What do you know about that?" gasped Jimmy. "That old boy sure has his
nerve with him."
"They're still hanging around here somewhere!" cried Bob excitedly.
"They've probably got a hiding place that even the police can't find."
"Oh, if we could only make sense of this!" exclaimed Herb, staring at
the apparently senseless message which he had written down. "If we only
had their code the whole thing would be simple."
"Oh, yes, if we only had a million dollars, we'd be millionaires!"
retorted Jimmy scornfully. "Where do you get that stuff, anyway?"
"Well," said Bob, temporarily giving up the problem, "as far as I can
see, all there is for us to do is to keep our eyes and ears open and
trust to luck. Now what do you say we listen in on the concert for a
little while?"
In the days that followed Cassey's voice came to them several times out
of the ether, and always in that same cryptic form that, try as they
would, they could not make out.
It was exasperating, that familiar voice coming to them out of the air
day after day without giving them the slightest clue to the whereabouts
of the speaker.
And then, while they were in town one day, they quite unexpectedly ran
into their old friend, Frank Brandon, the wireless inspector, whose work
for some time had taken him into another district.
However, he was to stay in Clintonia for a few days on business now, and
since he had nothing particular to do that day, Bob enthusiastically
invited him up to his home for a visit.
"Maybe you can give us some tips on our set," Bob added, as Mr. Brandon
readily accepted the invitation. "We're not altogether satisfied with
our batteries. For some reason or other they burn out too quickly."
"Yes, I'll take a look at it," agreed Mr. Brandon good-naturedly.
"Although I imagine you boys are such experts by this time I can't tell
you very much. What have you been doing with yourselves since we last
met?"
The boys told him something of their experiences, in which he showed
intense interest, and in return he told them some interesting things
that had happened to him.
And when he spoke of catching mysterious messages in the stuttering
voice of Dan Cassey, Bob broke in upon him eagerly.
"We've caught a good many such messages too," he said. "Have you managed
to make anything of them?"
"Not a thing," said Mr. Brandon, shaking his head. "If it is a criminal
code, and I am about assured that it is, then it is a remarkably clever
one and one that it is almost impossible to decipher without a key. I've
just about given up trying."
Then the boys told of their encounter with Cassey in the woods and their
adventure in the old barn, and Frank Brandon was immensely excited.
"By Jove," he said, "the man is up to his old tricks again! I'd like to
get hold of him before he does any serious harm. That sort of criminal
is a menace to the community.
"The funny part of it," he continued, as they turned the corner into
Bob's block, "is that these messages are not all in Cassey's voice. Have
you noticed that?"
It was the boys' turn to be surprised.
"That's a new one on us," Bob confessed. "The only messages we have
caught so far have been in Cassey's voice."
Frank Brandon slowly shook his head.
"No," he said, "I have caught a couple in a strange voice, a voice I
never heard before."
"The same kind of message?" asked Herb eagerly.
"The same kind of message," Brandon affirmed. "I have taken it for
granted that the owner of the strange voice is a confederate of
Cassey's."
"Maybe one of the fellows who was with him in the woods," said Jimmy,
and Mr. Brandon nodded gravely.
"It's possible," he said. "I don't know, of course, but I imagine that
there are several in Cassey's gang."
By this time they had reached Bob's home, and as it was nearly lunch
time, Mrs. Layton insisted that they all stay to lunch. The boys, not
liking to make her trouble, said they would go home and come back later,
but the lady of the house would have none of it.
"Sit down, all of you," she commanded, in her cheerful, hospitable way.
"I know you're starved--all but Jimmy--" this last with a smile, "and
there's plenty to eat."
Frank Brandon was very entertaining all during the meal and kept them in
gales of laughter. Mrs. Layton found him as amusing as did the boys.
At last the lunch came to an end and Mr. Brandon professed himself ready
to talk shop.
He was enthusiastic over the radio set the boys showed him and declared
that he could see very little improvement to suggest.
"You surely have kept up with the march," he said admiringly. "You have
pretty nearly all the latest appliances, haven't you? Good work, boys.
Keep it up and you'll be experts in earnest."
"If we could only find some way to lengthen the life of our storage
batteries," said Bob, not without a pardonable touch of pride, "we
wouldn't have much to complain about. But that battery does puzzle us."
"Keep your battery filled with water and see if it doesn't last you
about twice as long," suggested the radio expert. "Don't add any acid to
your battery, for it's only the water that evaporates."
"Will that really do the trick?" asked Joe, wondering. "I don't just see
how----"
"It does just the same," Brandon interrupted confidently. "All you have
to do is to try it to find out. Don't use ordinary water though. It
needs to be distilled."
"That's a new one on me, all right," said Bob, adding gratefully: "But
we're obliged for the information. If distilled water will lengthen the
life of our battery, then distilled water it shall have."
"It seems queer," said Mr. Brandon reflectively, "how apparently simple
things will work immense improvement. Marconi, for instance, by merely
shortening his wave length, is discovering wonderful things. We cannot
even begin to calculate what marvelous things are in store for us when
we begin to send out radio waves of a few centimeters, perhaps less. We
have not yet explored the low wave lengths, and when we do I believe we
are in for some great surprises."
"Go on," said Joe, as he paused. "Tell us more about these low wave
lengths."