[Illustration: There was a sudden flash of flame and the roar of an
explosion.—_Page_ 52.]
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THE
MOTOR RANGERS’
WIRELESS STATION
BY
MARVIN WEST
AUTHOR OF “THE MOTOR RANGERS’ LOST MINE,” “THE MOTOR
RANGERS THROUGH THE SIERRAS,” “THE MOTOR
RANGERS ON BLUE WATER,” “THE MOTOR
RANGERS’ CLOUD CRUISER,” ETC., ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
CHARLES L. WRENN_
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1913
BY
HURST & COMPANY
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE WIRELESS ISLAND 5
II. A PASSENGER FOR THE SHORE 15
III. IN THE GRIP OF THE STORM 28
IV. WHEN THE ENGINE FAILED 36
V. NAT TO THE RESCUE 48
VI. SAVED FROM THE SEA 56
VII. ON “WIRELESS ISLAND” 65
VIII. AN AERIAL APPEAL 78
IX. A STERN CHASE 91
X. MORE BAD LUCK 100
XI. “THERE’S MANY A SLIP” 108
XII. THE SMUGGLER AT BAY 117
XIII. TRAPPED! 125
XIV. NAT A PRISONER 134
XV. UNDER THE EARTH 145
XVI. DRIFTING THROUGH THE NIGHT 153
XVII. ABOARD THE LIGHTSHIP 164
XVIII. JOE RECEIVES VISITORS 176
XIX. AND ALSO GETS A SURPRISE 187
XX. HANK EXPLAINS 201
XXI. IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS 213
XXII. AN UNEXPECTED STUDENT 221
XXIII. A CALL FROM THE SHORE 229
XXIV. WHAT JOE DID 239
XXV. LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT 247
XXVI. DING-DONG’S CLUE 256
XXVII. A LONELY TRAIL 265
XXVIII. AT THE OLD MISSION 276
XXIX. CORNERED AT LAST 291
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THE MOTOR RANGERS’
WIRELESS STATION
CHAPTER I.
THE WIRELESS ISLAND.
The drowsy calm of a balmy afternoon at the Motor Rangers’ wireless camp
on Goat Island was abruptly shattered by a raucous, insistent clangor
from the alarm-bell of the wireless outfit. Nat Trevor, Joe Hartley and
Ding-dong Bell, who had been pretending to read but were in reality
dozing on the porch of a small portable wood and canvas house,
galvanized into the full tide of life and activity usually theirs.
“Something doing at last!” cried Nat. “It began to look as if there
wouldn’t be much for us on the island but a fine vacation, lots of
sea-breeze and coats of tan like old russet shoes.”
“I ter-told you there’d be ser-ser-something coming over the
a-a-a-a-aerials before long,” sputtered Ding-dong Bell triumphantly,
athrill with excitement.
“What do you suppose it is?” queried Joe Hartley, his red, good-natured
face aglow.
“Don’t go up in the air, Joe,” cautioned Nat, “it’s probably nothing
more thrilling than a weather report from one of the chain of coast
stations to another.”
“Get busy, Ding-dong, and find out,” urged Joe Hartley; “let’s see what
sort of a message you can corral out of the air.”
But young Bell was already plodding across the sand toward a small
timber structure about fifty yards distant from the Motor Rangers’ camp.
Above the shack stretched, between two lofty poles, the antennæ of the
wireless station. Against these the electric waves from out of space
were beating and sounding the wireless “alarm-clock,” an invention of
Ding-dong’s of which he was not a little proud.
Ding-dong had become inoculated with the wireless fever as a result of
the trip east which the Motor Rangers had taken following their stirring
adventures in the Bolivian Andes in Professor Grigg’s air-ship—which
experiences were related in the fourth volume of this series, The Motor
Rangers’ Cloud Cruiser. On their return to California—where all three
boys lived, in the coast resort of Santa Barbara—nothing would suit
Ding-dong but that they take a vacation on Goat Island and set up a
wireless plant for experimental purposes.
“I want to try it and away from home where a bunch of fellows won’t be
hanging about and joking me if I make a fizzle,” he explained.
As the lads while in the east had done a lot of business, some of it
connected with Nat’s gold mine in Lower California and some with
interests of Professor Griggs, they decided that they were entitled to
at least a short period of inactivity, and Ding-dong’s idea was hailed
as a good one. Goat Island, a rugged, isolated spot of land shaped like
a splash of gravy on a plate, was selected as an ideal camping place.
The wireless appliances, shipped from San Francisco, were conveyed to
the island on board the Rangers’ sturdy cabin cruiser _Nomad_, and three
busy, happy weeks had been devoted to putting it in working order. Since
the day that it had been declared “O. K.” by Ding-dong, the lads had
been crazy for the “wireless alarm” to ring in, and when it failed to do
so Ding-dong came in for a lot of good-natured joshing.
For some further account of the three chums, we must refer our readers
to the first volume of this series, The Motor Rangers’ Lost Mine. This
related how Nat, the son of a poor widow, unexpectedly came into his own
and from an employé’s position was raised to one of comparative
affluence. For a holiday tour when they returned from Lower California,
where Nat by accident had located his mine, the chums took an eventful
trip through the Sierras. What befell them there, and how they combated
unscrupulous enemies and had lots of jolly fun, was all set forth in the
second volume devoted to their doings, The Motor Rangers Through the
Sierras. Some sapphires found by them on this trip led to a strange
series of incidents and adventures attendant on their efforts to restore
them to their rightful owner. The precious stones were stolen,
recovered, and lost again, only to be delivered safely at last. These
exciting times, passed by the lads on their cruiser, the _Nomad_, which
took them half across the Pacific, were described in the third volume of
the young rangers’ doings, The Motor Rangers on Blue Water. Their voyage
in Professor Grigg’s wonderful air-ship, the _Discoverer_, has been
already referred to. With this necessarily brief introduction to the
young campers, let us return to Goat Island.
Directly Ding-dong reached the hut housing the apparatus, he flung
himself down before the instruments and hastily jammed the head-piece,
with its double “watch-case” receivers, over his ears. He picked up a
pencil and placing it conveniently above a pad of paper that was always
kept affixed to the table holding the sending and receiving appliances,
he began to send a storm of dots and dashes winging out in reply to the
wireless impulse that had set the gong sounding.
“_This is Goat Island!_” he banged out on the key, while the spark
leaped and writhed in a “serpent” of steel-blue flame between the
sparking points. It whined and squealed like an animal in pain as
Ding-dong’s trembling fingers alternately depressed and released the
“brass.”
“_Goat Island! Goat Island! Goat Island!_” he repeated monotonously, and
then switched the current from the sending to the receiving instruments.
Against his ears came a tiny pattering so faint as to be hardly
distinguishable. Yet the boy knew that the instruments must be “in
tune,” or nearly so, with whatever station was sending wireless waves
through space, else the “alarm” would not have been sprung.
He adjusted his instruments to take a longer “wave” than he had been
using. Instantly the breaking of the “wireless surf” against the antennæ
above the receiving shed became plainer.
“_This is the steamer_ Iroquois, _San Francisco, to Central American
ports_,” was what Ding-dong’s pencil rapidly transcribed on the pad,
while the others leaned breathlessly over his shoulder and watched the
flying lead. “_A passenger is dangerously hurt. We need assistance at
once_.”
The young operator thrilled. The first message that had come to the
island was an urgent one.
“_Where are you?_” he flashed back.
“_Thirty miles off the coast. Who are you?_” came back the reply.
“_Thirty miles off where?_” whanged out Ding-dong’s key, while he
grumbled at the indefiniteness of the operator on the steamer.
“_Off Santa Barbara. Who are you and can you send out a boat to take our
injured passenger ashore? Hospital attention is necessary._”
“_Wait a minute_,” spelled out the young Motor Ranger’s key.
He turned to the others.
“You see what I’ve got,” he said indicating the pad and speaking
perfectly plainly in his excitement; “what are we going to do about it?”
The lads exchanged glances. It was evident as their eyes met what was in
each one’s mind. The _Nomad_ lay snugly anchored in a cove on the
shoreward side of the island. A run of thirty miles out to sea was
nothing for the speedy, sturdy gasolene craft, and the call that had
come winging through the air from the steamer was an appeal for aid that
none of them felt like refusing to heed. It was clear that the case was
urgent. A life, even, might be at stake. Each lad felt that a
responsibility had been suddenly laid at their door that they could not
afford to shirk.
“Well?” queried Ding-dong.
“_Well?_” reiterated Joe Hartley as they turned by common consent to Nat
Trevor, the accepted leader of the Motor Rangers at all times.
“You’d better tell the man on that ship that we’ll be alongside within
two hours,” said Nat quietly; and that was all; Ding-dong, without
comment, swung around to his key again. Like Joe, he had known what
Nat’s decision would be almost before he gave it. Nat was not the lad to
turn down an appeal like the one sent out from the _Iroquois_. The sea
was smooth, the weather fair, but even had it been blowing half a gale
it is doubtful if Nat would have hesitated a jiffy under the
circumstances to perform what he adjudged to be a duty.
Ding-dong speedily raised the _Iroquois_.
“_We’ll take your injured man ashore_,” he flashed out. “_Lay to where
you are and we’ll pick you up without trouble. Expect us in about two
hours_.”
“_Bully for you, Goat Island_,” came the rejoinder, which Ding-dong
hardly waited to hear before he disconnected his instruments and
“grounded” them.
“Now for the _Nomad_,” cried Nat. “Hooray, boys! It’s good to have
something come along to relieve the monotony.”
“Di-di-didn’t I ter-ter-tell you so!” puffed Ding-dong triumphantly, as
the three lads set out at top speed for their hut to obtain some
necessary clothing and a few provisions for their run to the vessel that
had sent out the wireless appeal for help.