WALTER STEPS INTO THE BREACH
With Bob gone and radio lessons suspended the following morning seemed
to both Dick and Walter an unwontedly quiet one. Moreover with a
scorching sun high in the heaven, no breeze, and a dead low tide most
of the activities to which the boys might have resorted were out of
the question.
"Think of the sailing breeze we've seen blowing lots of mornings when
we couldn't go out," grumbled Dick. "Isn't it infernal luck?"
"Why don't you take your car and go for a spin," Nancy suggested.
"Wheeler has it, silly. He's meeting Bob."
"I couldn't go motoring anyway," put in Walter. "I've got the dogs to
chase round."
"You're not going out with them now," objected Dick.
"Not quite yet. I had them out before breakfast."
"What do you say we go over and fool round with the radio a while?"
Dick yawned. "We've nothing better to do."
"All right. We can at least listen in for a spell. We've got that
far."
"You boys better not go getting that wireless all out of order while
Bob is away," cautioned Nancy. "He'd be ripping mad to get home and
find it out of commission. Father wouldn't like it, either."
"Oh, we're not going to hurt the precious radio," sniffed Dick. "Don't
you think we know anything?"
"Not much," fluted Nancy as she flounced away.
"At least she does not flatter us," grinned His Highness, quite
unruffled by the girl's frankness.
"Oh, sisters never think a fellow knows anything, especially when
they're older," Dick grumbled, as he unlocked the door of the low
building and met the blast of close, stifling air that came out.
"Scott! The place is like an oven, isn't it? Open a window, can't
you?" he continued.
"Sure! There is some heat, I'll say. Just as well we dropped round if
only to air the place out," Walter replied.
Together they switched on the current, regulated amplifier, detector,
and tuner, and each with a head receiver tight to his ears sat down.
"Whee, but it is thick, to-day!" shouted Dick. "Run the tune up, kid,
and see if we get anything."
"It is always bad a day like this," called Walter. "Besides, everybody
seems to be butting in in the morning. Infernal, isn't it?"
"Let her go up to O'Connel's pitch. It can't do any harm."
"It isn't time for him to call, is it?"
"Pretty near."
"But what good would it do even if we did get his signal?"
"We should at least know he had something to say to us."
"I should consider that a negative satisfaction," Walter replied. "It
would just be an aggravation. However, here she goes! As you say, it
can harm nobody to get the right meter."
"There's that old commercial station up the Cape," announced Dick,
presently. "That fellow is always on the job at this hour."
"Probably he has to be, poor soul," Walter returned. "We'll get rid of
him in a minute. _What was that?_"
"It is some one on our line. That's the _Siren's_ call. It's O'Connel!
Jove! What are you doing, man? What are you going to do?" asked Dick
excitedly as he saw Walter's hand go out.
"Paper! Pencil! Hurry, can't you?" gasped Walter.
"Do you mean----"
"Let's both take it down in dots and dashes. Between us we may be able
to make some sense out of it afterward. Quick!"
Clearly and evenly the message ticked itself off. Then there was
silence.
"Get any of it?" Walter demanded, breathlessly tossing the receiver
aside and shutting off the current.
"About two words. He went so fast----Did you get anything?"
"Oh, I've got something; but whether it will make any sense remains to
be seen," said His Highness eagerly. "Where is the key! Toss it
over."
[Illustration: Clearly and evenly the message ticked itself off. Then
there was silence. _Page_ 240.]
"Here we go. Dot, dash,----"
"That's the letter A, you squarehead! I know what that first part is;
it is always the same and we needn't fuss to translate it. _Aboard
yacht Siren._ I don't care, either, where she is. What we want to get
at is what she wants to say."
"But how can we tell where all that stuff leaves off?"
"I mean to tell," declared Walter with determination.
"But there is punctuation and other rubbish mixed in with the
letters."
"No matter. Have a little patience, man!"
Nevertheless, in spite of all the patience and perseverance the boys
could muster the magic message remained an enigma and at the end of an
hour both were obliged to admit themselves beaten.
"It is worse than getting no message at all," lamented Walter.
"It certainly does not do us much good," assented Dick.
"Do you suppose your father knows anything about the Morse code?"
"Dad? Good heavens, no! Still we might take the thing up to the house
and show it to him."
"I don't imagine it is right, do you?" speculated Walter. "No doubt we
missed some of it or made mistakes. Still, what we contrived to write
agrees fairly well, so some of it must be correct. Let's take it to
your father. What do you say?"
"I feel like such a boob not to be able to make it out," Dick
answered with evident reluctance at confessing himself floored.
"But we'll have to tell him O'Connel called. We've got to do that
anyhow; so he may as well know the rest of it," Walter persisted.
"All right. We'll hunt him up. I warn you, though, that he will josh
us most unmercifully. He'll pitch into me, too, and ask me why I
haven't learned my Morse International before this. See if he
doesn't."
"It is one thing to learn the code out of a book and quite another to
be smart enough to read it or take it down," Walter maintained
stoutly. "Nobody ought to expect you to be able to get a message the
way Bob does. Why, he has been at the job years!"
"I know he has," Dick responded, slightly comforted. "Still, Dad will
rag me, just the same. See if he doesn't!"
Locking the door and pausing to gain courage they set out over the
lawn. Then suddenly, midway across the grass, His Highness came to a
stop.
"Mr. Burns!" he cried, wheeling round. "Why didn't I think of him
before?"
"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Dick, astounded by his
companion's strange conduct.
"Mr. Burns!" repeated Walter. "Come along. Can't one of the chauffeurs
take us down there?"
"For mercy's sake who is Mr. Burns, and why do you want to go and see
him hot off the bat?"
"Mr. Burns, the telegraph operator," Walter contrived to stammer. "He
must know Morse International. He has to know both the Morse American
which telegraph operators use on land, and the other code, I'm pretty
sure."
"But maybe what we've got down doesn't make sense," objected Dick.
"You've a husky nerve to go toting that scrawl of ours to a
professional."
"I don't care," grinned Walter. "I'm not afraid of Mr. Burns. He's
driven me out of the station too many times when I was a kid. I will
own, however, that I have more respect for him since I've learned what
it means to run a telegraph."
"He may drive you out of the station this time," Dick ventured with a
grimace.
"I'll bet he won't," was the sanguine response. "We've made it up
since then. I've even helped old Burnsie shovel his snow now and then.
He'll do a good turn for me, I'll bet."
"Come on then, if you are so sure of it," Dick answered, striding
toward the garage.
"You're sure your father won't mind our taking the car?"
"He doesn't want it this morning. He is going to hang round and see if
Bob calls him from New York. Besides, he said it was too hot to motor.
Will Burns be at the station now?"
"He will if a train is due," announced Walter. "If the office is
locked we can chase him to his house."
"All right! This is your party, remember," Dick said a trifle
wickedly. It was evident he had no faith in the expedition.
Notwithstanding his skepticisms, however, he ordered out the car and
he and Walter sped away on their errand.
"It is time for a train," announced Walter in an undertone, as they
neared the station. "See, there are people waiting. It is the noon
train from Boston."
"Burns will be too busy then to bother his head over fake messages, I
guess," sniffed Dick.
"Maybe not. At least we can try him," was His Highness's optimistic
assertion. "Hi, Mr. Burns!" The lad was out of the car and hastening
along in the wake of a much sunburned station agent in blue denim
overalls.
"Wal, if it ain't Walter King! What you after, young one? I hear
you've become the proprietor of Surfside--bought out the whole darn
place for yourself."
"I did buy it but I'm going to sell it again. It's too small. I can't
get room enough to stretch up there," came impishly from the lad on
the platform.
"Show! You don't say!" drawled Mr. Burns with obvious relish of the
joke. "Well, it ain't wise to be cramped. Maybe you wouldn't get your
growth if you were."
He cast a glance toward the short, thick-set figure behind him.
"I say, Mr. Burns," burst out Walter, "are you terribly busy? I've got
something I want to show you."
"What is it?" demanded the man, halting and holding suspended in his
hand a cerulean blue egg case.
"I don't know what it is--that's just the trouble," answered Walter
mysteriously.
"What you up to anyhow?" demanded Mr. Burns suspiciously.
Walter thrust forth the sheet of paper he had drawn from his pocket.
In his rough, grimy hand the telegraph operator took it.
"Where did you get this?" demanded he, glancing sharply over the top
of his spectacles.
"Why, we have a wireless up at Surfside and this thing--or something
like it that we didn't know enough to write down, came this morning."
"But I heard your brother Bob was up there."
"He had to go to New York yesterday."
"And left you to tend the tape, did he?" grinned the old man.
"Not much. He knows I'd be a duffer at the job," affirmed Walter.
"Mebbe you ain't as much of a duffer as you think. You managed to get
this down on paper."
"We managed to together--Dick and I," explained Walter. "I don't
suppose, though, we got it anywhere near straight. Does it make any
sense at all?"
"Sure it makes sense!" announced Mr. Burns with a vim that quite took
Walter's breath away. "There's queer spots in it here and there--a few
letters that ain't needed, perhaps. Still, you can omit 'em since they
serve no particular purpose."
"But what is the message? What does it say?" clamored Walter all
impatience.
"Well, it ain't so thrillin' you need to go into a thousand pieces
over it," commented the Cape Codder dryly. "Some friend of Mr.
Crowninshield's 'pears to be comin' down here on the afternoon train
bringin' with him his wife--either his wife or daughter."
"What!" Walter ejaculated weakly.
"That's what he says," continued Mr. Burns, calmly rereading the
document he held. "Evidently some relation--or at least a person who
feels he has the right to boss, for he says he wants to be met at the
train."
"Did I get the name?"
"Yes, that's here. I may's well read you the whole thing with the
exception of the extra touches you've added."
"I wish to goodness you would."
"'Tain't nothin' interestin', as I said before," insisted Mr. Burns,
readjusting his spectacles. "'_Coming on afternoon train and bringing
Lola. Meet me, O'Con_----' Where in thunder you goin?" The operator
gazed in amazement as a pair of chubby legs vanished up the platform.
"That's all right, Mr. Burns! I don't want the paper back. You can
keep it to remember me by. Thanks!" Then to Dick he shouted as he
sprang into the car:
"We're off for home fast as we can make it, old man! Such news! Your
father will be crazy! Whee! Hurrah!"
"If it is all the same to you," observed Dick with scorching sarcasm,
"it would be pleasant to know the import of the message I took down."
"_You_ took down--well I like that! _You_ took down! Why, man, you
could not even read it yourself! It is the message _I_ took down, my
son."
"_We_ took down," corrected Dick.
They both laughed.
"O'Connel's coming this afternoon! What do you say to that?"
"Great Scott! But what----"
"He's bringing his wife or daughter," continued Walter with a wicked
twinkle in his eye.
"What?" exclaimed his bewildered listener.
"Oh, this is rich! Rich!" continued His Highness with a paroxysm of
laughter. "Wait until we tell your father! My soul and body! I'm sick
laughing!"
"You might tell me the joke."
"I can't--I can't!" roared the boy. "It is too good!"
"And--and what about Lola?" stammered Dick.
"Why, you see Burns thought--my, but it's rich! Ha, ha! Burns
understood that--oh, it's a scream!" and with that Dick was forced to
be content.