"Whew!"
"Some storm, Tom!"
"I shouldn't fancy many gusts like that last one."
Station Z quivered like an eggshell in the hand of a giant. A loose
piece of wood from the roof of the operating cabin struck a sash,
demolishing two panes of glass, and the iron framework rocked to and fro
in the heaviest wind storm that had struck Sandy Point in years.
Tom Barnes glanced anxiously at the delicate wireless apparatus which
shared sensitively in the pervading disturbance. His companion, Harry
Ashley, was looking around for something to fasten over the broken
window to shut out the driving rain.
It was three days after the Morgan incident, and Tom was now fairly in
the wireless harness. It had been lowering weather all day, and Tom had
been glad that the rain had held off until Grace Morgan, who, with her
music teacher, had spent a delightful hour going over the wonders of
Station Z, had gotten home before the tempest broke.
Tom had obtained his mother's consent to his remaining all night at the
tower. It was the current conviction among all coast wireless men that a
stormy night usually brought urgent and important service. A storm
generally meant distress of some kind at sea, and Tom wanted to be on
hand in case of emergency, as he had promised Mr. Edson.
It was agreed that Harry Ashley should remain with him, and Mrs. Barnes
had put up a fine lunch. About five o'clock when the wind began to rise
with low rumblings of thunder in the distance and fitful gusts of wind,
Tom held eye and attention close on the apparatus, ready for what might
come.
Within an hour, however, his thoughts, as well as those of his
companion, were mainly concerned in their own immediate environment. The
storm was not accompanied by very vivid lightning, but the wind had
risen to hurricane force.
Just before dusk a particularly severe gust broke down a large elm tree
in sight. A little later a boat shed near the beach toppled over, and
the fragments were carried like kindling wood out into the hissing,
boiling surf.
About half an hour after dark, Harry, at the window, had sounded a quick
alarm.
"Tom!" he had shouted, "every light in the town has shut off in a
second!"
This meant that the storm had carried down the electric supply line from
Springville. Tom thought uneasily of the folks at home. Then the
assaults of the high breeze on their aerial perch caused him to center
his attention on their own position, and be ready to save themselves if
collapse came.
"Here, Harry, use this," ordered Tom, as his companion picked up a coat
to stop up the hole in the broken sash.
Harry took the square piece of matting Tom tendered. He picked a hammer
and nails to secure it across the sash. About to set it in place,
however, he interrupted proceedings with a violent:
"Hark!"
"What's the matter, Harry?" questioned Tom.
Harry held up a hand, warningly. He bent his ear keenly towards the
aperture. Then he turned to Tom.
"Did you hear it?" he demanded.
"Hear what?"
"That shout--a cry?"
"Wasn't it the wind?"
"No, I am sure not. Come here. There it is again!"
Tom ran to the window. Both held their breath in suspense. Both started
with intelligence and certainty now.
A fearful echoing cry rose far above the whistling, shrieking storm--the
echo of a human voice.
"Help! help! help!"
"That's no imagination," declared Harry.
"No, someone is in trouble," acquiesced Tom.
"It's right down on the road running to the beach," said Harry.
"Come on," urged Tom definitely, "we must investigate this."
He seized a lantern and threw open the trap door. Harry was at his heels
promptly. A gust of wind and a forceful dash of rain nearly swept them
off their feet as they reached the ground.
"Which way?" asked Harry quickly.
"Hark!" interrupted Tom.
Again the cry rang out. It was fainter, less emphatic than before, but
nearer. Tom could trace the point of the compass from which it came. He
ran in that direction, holding the lantern before him.
"There he is!" cried Harry suddenly. "Don't run over him, Tom."
Coming to an abrupt halt, both boys stared in startled excitement at a
human being on hands and knees making his way from the side of the road.
Near to him was a tangled mass of wreckage which had been a bicycle. Its
shattered skeleton covered a big flat rock, into which it had run to be
completely demolished.
The recent rider was bareheaded, and from a wound in his temple the
blood trickled down over his face and hands. One arm was helpless, and
doubled up under him at every futile attempt at forward progress.
"Why," shouted Tom, swinging the lantern forward so that its rays
covered the man, "it's Mr. Barton."
"Tom--Tom--" quavered the man, looking up through half blinded eyes,
"quick--the doctor!"
"What's that?" Tom challenged, keenly alive to the fact that Mr.
Barton's presence and condition signified some important circumstance.
But the man with a groan fell flat, rolled over on his side, and lay
like one dead in the road.
"Say, Tom, what shall we do?" inquired Harry in an awesome whisper.
"We mustn't let this man die here, exposed to the storm. He may be
seriously injured."
"It looks that way. I suppose he ran or was blown into that big rock
yonder."
"Yes," nodded Tom.
"What was he doing, though, out such a night as this on a bicycle?"
"He said something about a doctor. Help me, Harry, we must get him under
shelter."
"We can't carry him up into the tower."
"There's the old tool shed. Ready?"
"Yes, Tom."
They managed to convey the insensible man to the dilapidated structure
Tom had mentioned. Its roof was like a sieve, and several boards were
missing from its sides, but it afforded some security from the tempest.
Tom placed a pile of old bags under the man's head and set the lantern
near.
"Do you know him, Tom?" asked Harry.
"Oh, yes, he is almost a neighbor of ours. He runs a small truck farm
and has quite a family. Wet this, Harry, soaking."
Tom gave his handkerchief to his companion, who went outside and
saturated it in a deep puddle. Tom washed the dirt from the face of the
injured man and tried to staunch the flow of blood.
He listened at his heart and to his breathing, and lifted the limb that
seemed to have lost its natural power.
"He breathes all right," reported Tom to his anxious companion. "His arm
is sprained or broken, though.",
"We must get him home, Tom."
"In this storm--with no conveyance?"
"That's so. He might die, though, if we don't get a doctor."
"He's coming to," said Tom suddenly. "Mr. Barton! Mr. Barton!" called
Tom gently. "Don't you know me?"
The man opened his eyes, stared vaguely, and then tried to arise. He
fell back again instantly, however, with a moan of weakness.
"No use!" he gasped. "My head is splitting and I've got no strength left
in me at all. It was a fearful shock, a header full force, and--the
doctor!" he shouted suddenly, almost in a scream.
"What doctor, Mr. Barton?" inquired Tom solicitously.
"From Rockville."
"What about him?"
"My child--dying!" wailed the man. "Dr. Burr, the only one in Rockley
Cove, is away."
"That's so, I remember hearing of that," assented Tom.
"Lights in town shut off, telephone lines all down--the doctor, quick!"
With these last words pronounced in a painful gasp, Mr. Barton succumbed
and fell back unconscious again.
"Tom, we've got to do something!" cried Harry, greatly worked up by all
that was happening.
Tom's face showed the greatest anxiety and concern. The situation as
revealed by the disconnected utterance of the injured man was serious
and critical.
Tom pictured the storm-swept village in his mind's eye--the lights out,
telephone service disrupted, and a father despairingly endeavoring to
get word to the nearest doctor, five miles distant.
"Wait here, watch him," ordered Tom sharply, making up his mind what he
would do.
"Can you do anything?" questioned Harry eagerly.
"I'll try," replied Tom, starting in the direction of the tower.
"The wireless!" cried Harry, his eyes snapping animatedly.
"Yes."
Tom was up the ladder and through the trap door in a hurry. He had his
plan, but its success depended on two circumstances: first, if Ben Dixon
was in reach of the amateur wireless outfit at the home nest; and
second, if the telephone circuit the Dixon home was on, which belonged
to a different system to that at Rockley Cove, was in working order.
Tom speedily gave the call to the station at the Dixon place. He did not
wait for any response. He repeated the call briskly. Then he flashed off
the message he had in mind. Then he repeated the message twice.
Then--Tom waited.
There was a lapse of nearly ten minutes. Tom began to consider that Ben
was not on duty. Suddenly there was a spitting crackle in the receiver.
"O.K.," came the slow message. "Telephone all right. Reached doctor. On
way to Rockley Cove now."
"Good!" cried Tom.