"Have you spoken to Harry yet, Tom?" inquired Ben, two days after the
overturning of the plots of Mart Walters and his city friend, Bert
Aldrich.
It was the middle of the afternoon, and things wireless had been slack
at Station Z ever since morning. Tom turned from his chair at the window
where he had been dreamily surveying the open sea.
"No, Ben," he replied a little gravely. "I came near doing it last
night, but I didn't know but it might worry him, or make him think I was
trying to pry into his personal business."
"I tell you, Tom, I think Harry ought to be told about the mysterious
'Donner' messages, and asked to explain about the tattooed sun, moon and
stars on his left shoulder."
"I fancy he's about through with his task in the pasture by now," said
Tom. "Supposing you go up to the house, get him down here, and we'll try
to introduce the subject so it won't frighten or bother him."
"All right," assented Ben with alacrity, and was forthwith on his way.
Tom resumed his place at the window. His back was to the road running up
from the beach to the village, and he was not aware of an unexpected
arrival from that direction until a man's voice sounding within the room
hailed him.
"Hey, boy, who's in charge here?"
"I am," answered Tom, turning to confront two men who in turn entered
the tower by way of the trap door. They were strangers in Rockley Cove,
and Tom did not at all like their looks. The man who had accosted him
had a sharp, hard eye. His companion was furtive-faced, and suggested a
person constantly on the watch.
"We want to send a message," the former proceeded. "In cypher."
"Where to?" inquired Tom.
"The man pointed seawards."
"To a ship?"
"Yes, to the _Councillor_, bound for Canada."
Tom shook his head discouragingly.
"You will have to go to Station O at Deepdale. This is only a
demonstration plant, and I have no orders to take commercial business,"
explained Tom.
The man drew out a pocketbook.
"See here," he said, "I'll give you ten dollars to send the message."
"I'm sorry, but it's against the rules."
"Jackson, do it yourself," spoke the other man quickly, pressing close
to his companion's side.
"I'm out of practice."
"Oh, you can manage it."
"Hold on, there. I can't allow any interference with the apparatus
here," said Tom, stepping in front of the first man as he started over
towards the operating table.
"Can't, eh?" sneered the man. "Well, you'll have to. Keep him quiet,
Griffin."
"I've got him," announced the man addressed.
He had caught Tom by the wrist. As the latter struggled to free himself,
his captor dragged him toward a closet in one corner of the room.
Its door stood open. The closet was oak framed, built into the wall of
the room, and had a stout door with a small circular slit in it. Mr.
Edson had utilized it to lock up things he did not wish to leave lying
around loose, when he left the tower at night. Tom had used it as a
storeroom for surplus parts of the wireless outfit.
It had a strong padlock. The man threw Tom in roughly, secured the
padlock, and then went up to the table. His companion was closely
inspecting the apparatus.
"I'm at home at the regular key," he said. "I don't know whether I can
work this, though."
"Of course you can," urged the other. "Get ready. I've got the cypher
key and the message right here," and he took two sheets of paper from
his pocket.
Tom was helpless. He could not possibly force the heavy door of the
closet from its fastenings. Shouting would do no good. If he attempted
it, his jailers would probably treat him roughly, for they were
vicious-looking fellows. Tom hoped for the return of Ben and Harry, or
the arrival of someone else to interrupt the man at the table. Meanwhile
he was on the keen alert as to all that individual was doing.
The minute this man got his bearings, he started in with confidence. Tom
learned that he was flashing a message to the steamer _Councillor_,
bound from New York to Halifax. In plain English, the operator on the
_Councillor_ was instructed to deliver a message to a passenger
answering to the name of Daniel Ritchie. The message itself was a lot of
private code-words, utterly unintelligible to Tom.
The sender repeated the message and got up from the table.
"Hit or miss, that is the best I can do," he remarked.
"Hit or miss, you've done all that could be expected of you," remarked
his companion. "What are you going to do with him?" questioned the
speaker, with a shrug of his shoulders towards Tom's place of
imprisonment.
"Oh, leave him where he is. We want a start, and someone will come along
to let him out. So long, son. You might have made ten dollars if you'd
saved me the trouble of showing you that I'm some wireless myself."
Both men laughed coarsely and left the tower. Tom knew it was futile to
expect his liberty except through the accidental visit of someone. He
contented himself by trying to recall what he could remember of the
message sent. He tried also to figure out the motive for the men's
actions.
"They have got word to someone aboard the steamer _Councillor_," mused
Tom. "The trouble they went to to do it looks suspicious and mysterious,
though. Hello!"
Tom stared hard at the trap door opening. Through it a head was
protruded.
"Anybody here?" its owner called out.
"Yes, I am here," announced Tom, moving his hand through the slit in the
closet door.
"Tom Barnes!"
"That's right."
And then Tom gave a start as he recognized his unexpected visitor as
Bill Barber, head of the Black Caps.