A CLUE
After a hearty supper, Curlie brought forth his instruments and carefully
wound his coil aerial.
The miner watched him for a long time in silence. Having lived in
out-of-the-way places, he had learned nothing of this wonderful new
invention, the radiophone.
“You don’t mean to tell me,” he broke forth at last, “that you can hear
folks talk with just that outfit, no wires at all, and them fifty miles
away?”
“Yes,” smiled Curlie, “five hundred miles or a thousand if you like.
Almost any distance when conditions are right.”
Dropping back upon his sleeping-bag the miner watched with increasing
interest. It was evident that he found the thing hard to believe and that
at the same time he did not wish to doubt the word of a boy who had never
told him a lie.
“Joe,” said Curlie, “here’s something brand new. I think it’s going to
help us a lot.”
He placed a small instrument on top of a metal box, then connected it by
a tube to a loud-speaker. After that he tuned in on the 750 meter wave
length and spoke a few words into his transmitter. Having done this, he
settled back as if to await an answer.
Presently a loud jumble of sound, resembling nothing quite so much as a
flock of crows fighting over a carcass, began coming forth from the
loud-speaker.
Joe Marion’s brow wrinkled. At the end of three seconds he exploded:
“Tune her up, why don’t you!”
Curlie grinned, but did not move.
“No use letting it go on like that,” expostulated Joe, making a move to
take a hand in the business. “He might be sending something important.”
“He is,” said Curlie, pushing his companion back to his seat. “He’s
saying something mighty important. That’s why I don’t change it. I told
you I had something new. Can’t you wait to see it tried out?”
Sinking back into his place, Joe listened to the strange clack-clack in
silence.
A few seconds later the sounds ceased. Quickly removing a small
instrument and disconnecting the tube from the loud-speaker, Curlie tuned
in on 350 and, a moment later, they were listening to a concert which was
being broadcasted somewhere on the Pacific Coast.
“Do you mean to tell me that that thing is a phonograph?” said Jennings.
“No,” said Curlie, “I don’t. That music comes to us over five hundred
miles of space, perhaps a thousand; Seattle, Vancouver, San Francisco, I
don’t know which.”
Again the miner was silent.
Removing a small disc from the instrument which had produced the strange
jumble of sounds, Curlie slipped it upon a second instrument which
resembled a small phonograph.
“Now listen to this,” he said to Joe, as he shut off the radiophone.
From the phonograph-like instrument there came first a grating sound,
then in a somewhat metallic but very distinct tone:
“Valdez speaking. Your man is still active. Doing much damage in air.
Last night interrupted an important U. S. army order. Seemed nearer.
Appears to be moving toward us. Location somewhere south of Fort Yukon.
Advise speed and caution. N. T. S.”
“Well, now, what do you think of that!” exclaimed Joe.
“I think,” said Curlie, “that we have put one over on our old friend up
north there who persists in raising hob in the air.
“You see,” he went on more soberly, “it’s a very recent invention. You
slip a little affair on your sending instrument, which tears your tones
all into little bits and sends them out as so much mental mince pie. But
this little instrument here straightens them out for the person at the
other end and gives them to him just as they have been spoken. I feel
sure that the man we are after does not possess one of the outfits. That
means that we may speak with Valdez at any time without fear of
detection. All that an outside party gets is a jumble of sounds.
“If we ever get separated on the trail we may speak to one another in the
same way. You have that small, reserve sending and receiving set on your
sled and I am going to give you a set of these new instruments.
“Once more,” he smiled, “I want to state that it is my belief that if you
keep your little radiophone dry and tuned up, it will help you out of any
dangerous position.”
Had they known under what strange circumstances this belief would be
tried in the days to come and on this very trip, the two boys might not
have laughed quite so merrily as Curlie again threw on the radiophone and
they listened to jazz being broadcasted from Seattle.
Joe, tired out from the day’s struggle over the glacier, feeling the cozy
warmth of the fire, stretched himself out on his sleeping-bag and fell at
once into a drowsy slumber.
“Here,” said Curlie, noting the eager manner in which Jennings listened
to the bits of music and gossip which drifted in from the air, “you
listen with this.” He snapped a receiver over the miner’s head. “I’ve got
to shut off that loud-speaker. Want to listen in and see what I can
catch.”
For a time he listened on short wave lengths for his friend, the
Whisperer. At last, having given that up, he tuned in on long wave
lengths and at once began picking up something.
Having tuned his instrument accurately and adjusted his coil aerial, he
succeeded in listening in in a very satisfactory matter.
“Big business,” he whispered to himself. “Shouldn’t wonder if that was a
clue.”
It was indeed big business that was flashing through the air that night.
It was the report of a government official, the announcement of the
securing of sufficient evidence at Nome, Alaska, to convict a bold band
of smugglers who had been carrying valuable jewels, taken from rich
families in Russia, into America by way of Alaska. These smugglers had
escaped detection for some time by traveling in native skin-boats across
Behring Straits. In some way, Curlie could hardly make out how, the great
explorer Munson had been of assistance to the government in bringing
these men to justice. Because of this service the government was
instructing all its officials, especially wireless operators, to lend
every assistance possible to Munson in his dash to the Pole.
“Don’t see how a fellow three thousand miles away can help an explorer
reach the Pole,” Curlie told himself, “but I suppose there must be a
way—”
His thoughts were cut short by an interruption to the message. Someone
with a powerful sending set had cut loose into the air with his sparker.
The result was utter bedlam of the air. Not one word could be recognized.
“That’s the man,” Curlie breathed excitedly, “that’s the fellow I’m
after! Now for his location.”
His fingers moved rapidly from instrument to pencil and paper, then back
to instrument again. There was a look of tense excitement on his face,
such a look as comes upon the hunter as he sights a moose not a hundred
yards away. Curlie was a born hunter, a hunter of the air. He had got
scent of a prey, a dangerous prey, and was at this moment hunting him
down.
“There,” he breathed as the bedlam ceased, and he drew the receiver from
his head. “I know where you are, at least. You’re moving. I wonder if
we’ll meet and when. I know what I’m going to say to you when we meet.
Wonder if you know what you’re going to say to me!”
Having packed his instruments away, he stretched himself out before the
fire to think. Events were moving on apace. It looked as if his journey
would be shorter than he had at first believed it would be. You never
could tell, though. He thought for the hundredth time of the Whisperer;
wondered who she really was and why her whisper had been missing
to-night.
At last, reaching over to Joe, he shook him into wakefulness and told him
to turn in. Having undressed, he slipped on a suit of pajamas, crept into
his sleeping-bag and was soon fast asleep.