CHAPTER XIX
"S O S" from Friday Island
Max Handy, the Canadian youth at Rockport, who gave the crew of the Catwhisker, by wireless, directions whereby the latter were able to locate "mathematically" the whereabouts of the "Canadian Crusoe's Friday Island" listened in much of the time thereafter, in the hope of being able to keep in touch with developments to the end of this interesting radio affair.
And this hope was realized in a degree that could hardly have been expected with moderation. But he was well equipped, and, being mechanically inclined, and industrious, he was able to get a maximum of results with his sending and receiving outfit.
He had traced the rescue yacht all the way from Oswego to Friday Island, and the last message he had picked up from the three young radio Americans was the one that completed the agreement under which the yacht was to proceed to Rockport next day and meet the father of the "missing Crusoe". Then he attempted to get in communication with the island operator, but Mr. Perry had just announced that the next number on the program would be "everybody to bed at once", and there was no more listening-in before the next morning.
Max stayed up late that night, with phones to his ears, eager to get another message from the island, and he was a very much disappointed enthusiast when at last he gave up his efforts, convinced that they were useless. He slept late next morning and consequently lost an opportunity to respond to Hal's first call to enlist the aid of the Rockport amateurs in the campaign to rescue the missing "Crusoe".
But at last he caught a message from the island, and the conversation, translated from code, that took place between him and Hal, following a few introductory inconsequentials, was as follows:
"I listened-in last night and heard your arrangements for today," the
Canadian dot-and-dashed. "When are you coming to Rockport?"
"Two of us are on the way," Hal replied. "They ought to be there by this time."
"Is there anything I can do to help you?"
"Yes. Can you go to the dock and ask them to hurry back? There are four ugly acting men here on the island, who have ordered us off. They threatened to make trouble for us if we do not go soon."
"Don't your friends know those men are there?"
"No; we discovered them after the boat left."
"All right, I will run down to the dock and tell them."
Max literally kept his promise relative to his manner of travel. He ran all the way to the dock, half a mile. The Catwhisker was there, tied fast with cables, but nobody was on board.
"They've gone to the depot," he concluded; then he turned his steps toward the railroad station.
He ran and walked alternately, with a dozen changes of speed, and arrived just as the train from the west was pulling in. He had no difficulty in identifying Mr. Perry and Cub when they introduced themselves to Mr. Baker, as the latter stepped from a coach, and a moment later he was addressing the owner of the Catwhisker thus:
"Is this Mr. Perry of Oswego, New York?"
The latter turned quickly and beheld a youth about the age of his own son, but of considerably shorter stature.
"It is," he replied somewhat apprehensively, in view of recent stirring events and the logical probability of more of the same sort.
"Well, I have something important to tell you," Max continued. "I'm the boy who gave you the radio compass information that made it possible for you to find Friday Island."
"Gee! I'm glad to meet you," exclaimed Cub, seizing the Canadian youth by the hand and forgetting, in his eagerness, the announcement from the "radio compass detective" that he had "something important" to communicate.
But the latter, although equally pleased to meet the young amateur from the States, was on his guard against a delay of this sort and soon broke through the effusion of cordiality with which Cub greeted him and continued his communication thus:
"I was just telegraphing with one of the boys on the island, and he told me to tell you to hurry back. There are four men on the island who ordered them away and threatened to make trouble for them if they didn't get away soon."
"What's that!" exclaimed Mr. Perry, seizing the youth by the arms. "You say you got that kind of message from those boys?"
"Sure I did," the boy replied; "and they want you to hurry back."
"What kind of men are they—rough characters, bad men?"
"That's what I understood him to mean."
"Come on, Mr. Baker, Bob; we must hustle along. Thank you, my boy; you'll hear from me again."
"I'll hurry back and tell the boys I found you and you're on your way," shouted Max as he ran down the street toward home.
Mr. Perry led the way toward the dock at a rapid pace. Presently they found themselves in front of a hardware store, and the owner of the Catwhisker stopped and said:
"I'm going in here a minute."
He entered, and Mr. Baker and Cub followed, wondering a little as to the motive of the boy's father. But they were not long left in doubt.
"Have you any fire-arms on sale here?" Mr. Perry asked, addressing the proprietor.
"Small or large?" the latter inquired.
"Small."
"Right this way."
He stepped behind a show case in which was a display of automatics and revolvers. Mr. Perry selected one of the former and a box of cartridges and took out his pocketbook to pay for them.
"I believe I'll take one, too," interposed Mr. Baker, also producing a purse.
The storekeeper looked somewhat curiously at the two men.
"I'm supposed to exercise care and judgment in selling these weapons," he remarked slowly.
"Of course, of course," returned Mr. Perry. "The situation is this: We belong to a yacht on the river and have run up against some bad characters. I am the owner of the yacht and have decided that we need protection."
"Sure, sure, that's perfectly satisfactory," said the hardware man. "You can buy out my whole arsenal on that explanation."
"We won't need it," Mr. Perry smiled. "These two guns are enough."
The purchase completed, the two men and the boy left the store and hastened on toward the municipal docks.
Meanwhile Max arrived at his home and went direct to his radio room. There the first thing he did was to don his phones, and the result was instantly startling.
He had left the instrument tuned to the Friday Island wave length and the aerial switch in receiving position.
"S O S, S O S, S O S," crashed into his ears in rapid, energetic, excited succession, it seemed to his susceptible imagination.
Quickly he threw over the switch, and called for an explanation. It came as follows:
"Those men have seized my friend, and now are coming after me. S O S, S
O—"
That was all—not another dot or dash. Desperately Max appealed for further details, but it was like calling for life in a cemetery. The ether was dead, so far as Friday Island was concerned.