A CALL FROM THE SHORE.
It was early the next morning that the “wireless alarm” summoned Joe
from his couch. Sleepily he made his way to the wireless hut and was
soon in communication with Nat. Something had gone wrong with the
_Nomad’s_ wireless, it appeared, and Ding-dong’s new station was not in
working order. This was the reason that Joe had not been called up the
night before.
“_Anything happened?_” asked Nat.
“_Lots_,” tapped out Joe sententiously, “_but you’ll have to wait to
hear all about it till you get over here_.”
Nat rejoined that he would be over about noon, and then Joe, in order to
keep his mind occupied, set about a general cleaning up of the wireless
instruments and a thorough “spring cleaning” of the shanty.
This work occupied him so busily that he had little time to notice the
weather, and it was not till a sudden downpour of rain beat a tattoo on
the roof of the wireless hut that he looked out. The sky was overcast
and quite a brisk sea was running. The wind, too, was blowing pretty
strong.
“Nasty weather,” thought Joe, “but that won’t worry the _Nomad_.”
Just then came another call from Nat. The _Nomad_ was about half an hour
away from the island and making good time despite the big seas.
“_Will be home to dinner_,” flashed Nat, and Joe flashed back “_M-M-M_,”
which, in telegrapher’s language, signifies “laughter.”
The _Nomad_ came into the cove on schedule time. Her white sides were
wet and glistening with spray, and Nat and Nate Spencer in their
oilskins looked every inch the young seamen when they came ashore in the
dinghy, the same one, by-the-way, that had been recovered from Whale
Creek.
Over the meal that followed their arrival, Joe told his story amid
frequent interruptions. When he came to the narrative of young Dolliver
and the mysterious man who was dwelling in the elder Dolliver’s ranch
house, Nat agreed with him that in all probability they had, by an
extraordinary coincidence, crossed Minory’s trail once more. Of course
it might be a mistaken supposition, but Nat agreed with Joe that it was
at least worth while investigating.
“I’ll take a stroll around after dinner and look at the weather,” said
Nat. “If it isn’t too rough we can run over in the _Nomad_, but after
all, possibly it would be just as effective to call up Ding-dong and let
him communicate with the authorities.”
While Joe and Nate washed dishes and otherwise set things to rights, Nat
started out on his tramp. It was still raining hard and blowing harder,
with a nasty, choppy gray sea running.
“Pretty dusty,” commented Nate, looking out of the window on the dreary
seascape.
But within the shanty all was snug and warm and cheerful, and when Nat
returned in half an hour or so, he found a picture of comfort awaiting
him. He divested himself of his wet oilskins and heavy boots before he
spoke, and then he had some remarkable news to impart.
“There’s a small schooner of not more than thirty-five or forty tons
anchored off the southerly end of the island,” he said.
Nate looked up instantly. It was clear that to his seaman’s mind the
news was puzzling.
“What in the world will she be anchored there for?” he asked in an
astonished voice. “If she’s hove to to ride out the storm, why doesn’t
she come into the cove?”
“Just what puzzled me,” said Nat. “I watched her from behind some sand
dunes, but not a sign of life could I see on her decks. She looks like a
fishing schooner, and yet there are no dories piled up on her deck,
which makes it look all the more odd.”
[Illustration: “They’ve let go the anchor with all sails set,” murmured
Nate, “and they dropped that mudhook like a cat stalking mice.”—_Page
232._]
“It does that,” agreed Nate; “and anyhow, fishermen wouldn’t heave to
for this bit of a blow.”
“I’ll tell you what, Nate,” said Nat presently, “suppose you go and take
a look at her. Then come back and tell us how you size her up. You’re
sailorman enough to know a craft by the cut of her jib, and maybe you
will know what vessel this is.”
“All right,” assented Nate cheerfully. “I’ll slip into my oilers, get
around there and be back in two shakes of a duck’s tail.”
“And, oh, Nate, don’t show yourself if you can help it. There’s plenty
of cover behind the salt grass that grows on the dunes.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Nate assured him, “I’ll be as invisible as
Mort Kennedy, who owes me ten dollars, is every payday.”
The sturdy fellow strode out into the storm, leaving the two boys alone.
“Are you troubled because that fishing schooner is lying to off the
island?” asked Joe, as Nate slammed the door behind him.
“Frankly, I don’t quite like the look of it,” rejoined Nat; “if she is
lying to because of the storm, the cove is the natural place for her to
seek shelter and not the open sea.”
“That’s right, it _has_ a funny look. Say, Nat, you don’t think that old
Israel Harley can be on board, do you?”
“I don’t know, Joe; I don’t know what to think. He is a daring old
villain, and he has no reason to love us. After what Hank told you
yesterday, it behooves us to be on the watch constantly. Till that
schooner goes away, we can’t leave the island.”
“Then I’d better send a flash to Ding-dong. I wonder if his station is
working yet?”
“It ought to be, but in that case I should think he’d have given us a
call.”
“Well, we can try it, anyhow. Come on down to the hut while I get busy
with the instruments.”
The two boys tried for a long time to raise Ding-dong, sending out the
call “_D-B_,” the prearranged signal, incessantly. But no answer came
for a long time, and when it did it was hardly satisfactory. It was from
the Santa Barbara operator, who had been listening in.
He cut into Joe’s waves with a sharp summons for “_G. I._”
“_Right here_,” flashed back Joe eagerly, thinking that it might be
Ding-dong at last. He was soon undeceived.
“_This is station O at Santa Barbara talking_,” came through the air to
the Motor Rangers’ aerials. “_You been trying to get young Bell’s
station?_”
“_Yes, what’s the trouble?_” inquired Joe.
“_I don’t know exactly, but something was the matter with his wave
lengths this morning. He was trying to get you, but couldn’t succeed.
But he reached me all right and left a message for you fellows._”
“_A message? What is it?_” flashed back Joe.
“_Here it is,—all ready?_”
“_Go ahead._”
“_Dear Nat and Joe. Don’t worry. I have left Santa Barbara on a hot
clew to you know who. I expect to recover everything before
night.—Ding-dong._”
“We-el, what do you know about that?” gasped Nat, as Joe said
“_Good-bye_” and cut off.
“That kid is off along the trail of trouble again as sure as you are a
foot high,” exclaimed Joe. “Now what are we going to do? Where do you
suppose he’s gone?”
“Looks a good deal as if he might have found out something about Minory,
doesn’t it, and is anxious to keep all the credit of recovering the
plans and the models to himself,” commented Nat.
“But in that case he may run into grave danger,” protested Joe
excitedly. “That fellow wouldn’t stop at a trifle. What are we going to
do about it, Nat?”
“There’s only one thing to be done now,” declared Nat.
“And that is?”
“Raise Santa Barbara, notify the authorities of the place where we
suspect Minory may be found, and let them take after him. If Ding-dong
has gone to the right place, they may arrive in time to get him out of
trouble. If he’s gone somewhere else, why, I don’t see that there’s
anything we can do but hope for the best.”
“That’s about all,” said Joe, as he turned to his instruments. At that
moment the door was flung open and in came Nate with a burst of rain and
wind at his back.
“That feller off the point is no fisherman,” he declared positively. “I
think that it’s up to us to keep our weather eyes open to-night.”
“For what?” asked Joe, as he tapped out the Santa Barbara call.
“For trouble,” was the brief reply. “Got any shootin’ irons on the
island?”
“Only an old revolver,” said Nat. “We’ve never needed them.”
“S’pose you’ve heard about the cowpuncher,” said Nate dryly. “He had
never needed a revolver for forty years, but when he did need it, he
needed it _durn bad_!”
“And you think that is our position?” asked Nat.
“I ain’t saying,” was the response; “but that schooner’s got other
business off this island than riding out this ten-cent blow.”