"This means business!" exclaimed Tom.
What Mr. Edson had predicted had happened--a stray message that meant
something, the accidental discovery of news perhaps of vast importance
to the person for whom it was intended.
The young wireless operator was a quick thinker. The call was for O-17.
Tom knew from hearsay where that station was located.
Mr. Morgan had a large stock farm a little outside of a small hamlet
called Deepdale. That settlement had no telephone or telegraph service.
It was located nearly twenty miles from a railroad station and any
stranger sojourning there was temporarily outside of civilization so far
as communication with the world was concerned.
Tom was aware of all this. He readily figured out as well why the
message had been sent per wireless to Station O-17. This was operated on
a high point of rocks directly on the coast outside of Deepdale. It was
one of a regular chain in the coast service.
The sender in New York City had some reason for believing that Mr.
Morgan was at his stock farm and not at his home at Fernwood, near
Rockley Cove. It was imperative that he get in communication with him
within an hour. He had risked all on the message finding Mr. Morgan at
Deepdale.
"Why, I met Mr. Morgan this morning in his automobile coming from the
direction of Deepdale," soliloquized Tom. "He must have changed his
plans. No delay now. This must be important."
Tom trusted to his memory as to the subject matter of the wireless
message. As he hastily descended from the tower, however, he repeated it
over mentally to make sure he would not forget any salient point.
"The message mentioned 'U. Cal.'," breathed Tom. "I can guess what that
means."
To his way of thinking it meant "United Calcium." Only two days previous
in the Rockley Cove _Weekly Clarion_ Tom had read a bit of current
gossip about the present subject of his thoughts.
The item had referred to some late investments of the retired
capitalist. It specifically cited the fact that "our esteemed townsman,"
Mr. Walter Morgan, it was rumored, was negotiating for the control of
the stock of the United Calcium Company. The investment, it was stated,
would involve nearly a quarter of a million dollars of capital.
Now it appeared the partner or business representative of Mr. Morgan in
New York City had discovered a flaw in the proposition, and had
anxiously and urgently wired for instructions.
Station Z was just two miles from Fernwood, the summer home of the
Morgans. It lay directly on the ocean, and was a straight course. Tom
thought of Grace Morgan as he braced up for a vigorous walk. That was
quite natural, for they were good friends. He lamented that he was not
in very dressy shape to meet the dainty little miss, whom he would
probably find in the pink of perfection as to garb and appearance, as
she generally was.
"Can't help it, this is business," decided Tom grimly. "Maybe I won't
meet her," he added hopefully.
Tom undertook a big spurt of speed. As he came to Silver Creek, two
school chums getting ready to start fishing yelled at him.
"Hey, Tom!" cried one mandatorily.
"Yes, we want you," piped the other.
"Can't stop," panted Tom, waving his hand, and speeding on as if he were
entered for a Marathon.
"I've lost no time, that's sure," he decided as he passed the boathouse
at the end of the private pier belonging to Fernwood.
Tom came to the terrace in front of the Morgan mansion. A fluttering
white dress attracted his attention from the front porch of the house,
and Grace came into view.
"Why, Tom!" she said in a genuine friendly welcome. "Come up and sit
down. You look tired out."
"Yes, been running hard," explained Tom, short-breathed and excited.
"Must see your father."
"Father?" repeated Grace, quite surprised.
"Yes, Mr. Morgan, is he at home?"
"Why, no, Tom."
"Where will I find him, then?"
"Why, you are so excited, Tom!"
"Reason to be," gulped Tom. "Please don't delay. It's important."
"Papa just left in the automobile for Springville. There is a meeting of
bank directors there, he told me. There's the horn now."
"Excuse me," said Tom hastily, and bolted unceremoniously around the
side of the house where the announcement from the automobile had echoed.
Pretty Miss Morgan looked amazed, and tapped her daintily slippered foot
in a vexed way at the ungallant disappearance of her acquaintance. Tom,
however, did not wait for explanations. He had caught sight of the
Morgan automobile. It was just passing upon the roadway leading west
from the rear of the grounds.
"Hold on--stop!" yelled Tom irrepressibly.
The puffing of the newly-started machine apparently drowned out his
hail. The hood of the tonneau shut Tom out from sight of Mr. Morgan and
his chauffeur.
Tom ran no farther after the rapidly-gliding car. He saw in a flash that
his only chance of stopping it was by a sharp swift dash diagonally to a
point where the circling road cut south. He speeded reckless of flower
beds and fences on his mission, flew heedless of mud and water through
an obstructing swale, and, breathless and pretty nearly exhausted,
gained the main-road.
Honk! honk!--not a hundred yards distant the chauffeur sounded a warning
as Tom sprang into the middle of the highway, waving his arms violently
to call a halt.
"What's this?" demanded Mr. Morgan sharply, as the chauffeur perforce
let the machine down to a dead stop.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Morgan----" began Tom.
"Young Barnes?" observed the capitalist, with a surprised stare at Tom.
"Yes, sir," hurried on Tom. "I have some important news for you."
"Important news for me?" repeated Mr. Morgan vaguely.
"Yes, sir."
"Who from?"
"Your partner, sir, or agent in New York City."
"What?" cried Mr. Morgan. "How does it come through you?"
"By wireless," reported Tom promptly.
"Oh, I've heard something about your dabbling in that."
"Can I speak before your chauffeur?" inquired Tom.
"If you have anything to say, go ahead."
"Well, sir," said Tom, "I caught a message sent to wireless station
O-17, up at Deepdale. It seems that the sender expected to reach you
there. His name appears to be Dunbar."
"Yes, yes," urged Mr. Morgan impatiently, "I sent word I would be at
Deepdale until to-morrow, but changed my plans."
"It was fortunate that I knew you were back," said Tom. "The message
seems important."
"Out with it," ordered Mr. Morgan.
"I think I can repeat it word for word."
"Do so, then."
"'Have a tip that U. Cal. cannot prove up on patents. News will be
public before night. Order your subscription cancelled before afternoon
session of Stock Exchange, or there will be a heavy loss.'"
"Thunder!"
Mr. Morgan jumped up fully a foot on the cushioned seat of the tonneau.
His face went white as chalk. He seemed about to spring from the
automobile. Then he jerked out his watch, fell back, and, trembling all
over, gasped out to the chauffeur:
"Drive for your life to the telegraph office at Rockley Cove. Don't lose
a second!"