Jack found the life on board the ice-patrol cutter much to his
liking. There was almost constant work for him, for the southern
drift of the ice was unusually heavy that year.
Many a liner had reason to thank the constant vigilance of the
ice-patrol craft. Across miles of ocean, through space, there would
flash, from Jack’s key, the message that warned of the white terrors
of the north. The knowledge thus gained enabled the ship receiving
it either to alter her course so as to steer clear of danger, or to
be on the lookout for bergs or drift ice.
Nor was the work of the _Thespis_ limited to this. On her long
“beat” she found occasion two or three times to render aid to the
crews of ice-battered sailing vessels. Jack’s unique device for
blowing up icebergs by wireless was tested many times and was never
found wanting. That spring it did invaluable service, all of which
was duly mentioned in Captain Simms’ report to Washington, when that
came to be made.
As the spring wore on and the latter part of May approached, the
“patrol” of the _Thespis_ lay further and further north. One day
Jack received a flash from Washington, relayed from northern
stations. The message gave the _Thespis_ additional work to do.
“Watch international sealing boundary closely,” it read, “apprehend
all poachers. Learn Terror Carson on schooner _Polly Ann_ in your
vicinity. Try all means to capture him.”
But although a sharp lookout was kept, nothing was seen of the trig
schooner, and little did Jack imagine what ties of friendship bound
him to one of the _Polly Ann’s_ company. And so the days slipped by,
with occasional excitement to vary the routine, and the time was not
far off when danger of icebergs for that year would be passed and
gone, and the _Thespis_ would put back to New York on regular duty.
When that occurred, Jack’s days with the iceberg patrol would be
numbered, and he had found the work so interesting that he rather
regretted this. Yet he knew that he was far from the top of the
ladder yet and that he had many a step to climb in the days to come.
On his return he knew that Mr. Jukes would be back, and he was
hoping for an appointment on one of the great new liners of the
company.
However, these were all day dreams, and Jack was a practical youth.
Then, too, a good deal of spare time was occupied perfecting his
portable wireless. He had given it several tests and reaped a
satisfying reward for his months of labor over it when he discovered
that it worked well up to a radius of 156 miles. The weakest point
about it was the hand-driven dynamo. But just at present Jack saw no
way to remedy this without increasing the weight of the contrivance
so much as to impair its portability.
On the night that young Raynor, far off on lonely Skull Island, sent
out his calls after a day of vain efforts at communication, the
_Thespis_ was further to the north than she had yet cruised. Jack
was unusually tired after a day of hard work, for several icebergs
and fields and not a few growlers had been sighted, and he had been
kept very busy sending out warnings and answering questions flung at
him from all along the Atlantic track.
But at last the long day was over and his reports neatly written out
and posted in the big “Berg Book” or log. He was at liberty to turn
in, for if icebergs were sighted during the night by the watch, he
knew that he would be at once notified so that he could spread the
warning broadcast.
As usual, he slept soundly, but he was troubled by dreams. They were
of Raynor. With remarkable vividness he saw his chum adrift on a sea
of ice surrounded by perils. Then the scene shifted, and Raynor was
on a small vessel in a furious storm. Jack saw the little craft
lifted on giant billows and harassed by pounding ice masses. Then
came a terrific crash and the small vessel broke up. For a flash,
Jack saw Raynor swimming heroically in the boiling waves and
then--he awakened with a cry of alarm.
“Gracious, what a dream,” he muttered. “I’m glad I don’t have a
nightmare often.”
He looked at the clock on the bulkhead. It was time to turn out. As
was his custom, Jack inspected the “tell-tale” tape of the wireless
before he did anything else. This tape is an automatic contrivance
that works under a “tapper” connected with the receiving part of the
wireless. An inked roller checks off on it any dots and dashes that
may have come over the wire while the operator was otherwise
engaged. To anyone who can read code, therefore, it forms a complete
record.
Jack picked up the tape in a rather perfunctory way. He expected to
find nothing on it but the usual inquiries about bergs reported
earlier and so forth.
But hardly had he cast his eyes on it this morning than he almost
dropped it again as, if it had been red-hot.
Marked on it over and over again were these symbols:
... .. ...
S O S
His trained eye skimmed over other markings on the inked tape. To
him the array of dots and dashes was as plain as print.
“We are marooned on a small island. Skull Island. Send help.” Then
followed the bearings of the island just as Raynor had taken them
from the course pricked off on Terror Carson’s chart.
Jack, without waiting even to transmit a report to Captain Simms,
switched on the transmitting current. Then he began to make the
wireless crack and whistle as flash after flash volleyed out at his
crisp decisive handling of the key.
“Skull Island! Skull Island! Skull Island!” he crackled out from the
aërials of the _Thespis_.
But what appeared to be an eternity passed and no answer came. Jack
had some time since made his report to Captain Simms, who had
informed him that Skull Island was a speck on the map some 250 miles
to the north-west of their present position. The whole ship buzzed
with excitement. Every now and then an officer’s head would be poked
in the door of the wireless room to know if any answer had been
received yet.
“It is the most unique situation I ever heard of,” declared Captain
Simms. “I am half inclined to believe it may be some trick. How
could anyone, on such a forsaken spot as Skull Island, which is a
mere mass of rocks and stunted shrubs, have a wireless station?”
But Jack kept patiently at his task. His young assistant, Bill
Higgins, helped him as much as he could. Higgins was a young sailor
who had shown aptitude for wireless work and had been “broken in”
under Jack’s predecessor.
“Anything yet?” he asked as he reéntered the wireless room after
scurrying forward with a message to Captain Simms that the air was
still silent as the grave.
Jack gave a negative sign.
“I’m going to try more juice,” he said, “there’s a lot of
interference this morning. I’ve got to tune it out. Fix up that
weeding-out circuit like a good fellow.”
“The tertiary one?” asked Higgins.
“That’s the idea. If we can’t reach them with that we can’t get them
at all.”
Higgins took the necessary steps to bring into play an added circuit
which would render the tuning of the transmitting instruments twice
as sharp as with the ordinary loose-coupled transformer. The spark
cracked and snapped like a whip lash.
All at once Jack gave a shout.
“Got ’em, by hookey! I got ’em!”
There was a brief silence while his fingers dashed off the message
that came from space in answer to his insistent demands.
“We are marooned on Skull Island.”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
“There was a bad shipwreck. The schooner _Polly Ann_ was smashed by
ice.”
“The _Polly Ann_?” queried Jack, with a flash of recollection.
“Terror Carson’s ship?”
“That’s the one, but Terror Carson and all his crew got safe away in
the boats. They left three of us here. We have plenty of food and
there is water, but the island is uninhabited.”
“Who are you, members of Terror Carson’s poaching crew? This is the
ice patrol cutter _Thespis_.”
“No; we were on board against our wills. We are Noddy Nipper,
Pompey, a negro cook, and William Raynor, lately of the freighter
Cambodian.”
The next instant young Higgins had reason to exclaim as he stared in
amazement at the usually self-contained Jack Ready.
“He’s gone crazy!”
For the young wireless man of the _Thespis_ was doing a war-dance
and banging his key as if he would break it off at one and the same
moment. The crackling, whanging spark made an accompaniment for his
wild caperings.
“What’s the matter? Can I do anything? Shall I go for the doctor?”
inquired Higgins when he had recovered his breath.
“Doctor nothing!” shouted Jack, and with his free hand he smote
young Higgins a blow petween the shoulders that made that youth
cough and his eyes water.
“Old Billy Raynor’s come back! Come back from the grave via
wireless, by all that’s wonderful!”