“Then he’s nearer here than he is to us,” announced Tom. “But I would like to know who the other fellow was and what he said and why the dickens we can’t hear him when we hear this chap. Couldn’t you make out any of the words that the fellow said—those that sounded like talking through a comb, I mean?”
“No, they were just a sort of buzzy mumble,” replied Henry.
“Well if he’s east of here it ought to be easy to locate him,” remarked Frank. “Do you know any fellows around here who have sets, Henry?”
“Sure there are lots of ’em,” Henry assured him. “Tom Fleming over at Bellevue has a dandy set and there’s ‘Pink’ Bradley down on 19th St., and Billy Fletcher up on Lexington Ave., and a whole crowd I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s try it out at Fleming’s place next, then,” cried Frank. “Do you s’pose you can see him to-morrow and tell him the scheme? And say, ask him if he’s heard the same talk.”
“I can phone over to him now—I guess he’s home,” said Henry, “but what’s back of all this? You fellows aren’t so keen just because you want to locate this fellow that’s been talking, I’ll bet.”
Tom hesitated, but in a moment his mind was made up.
“I suppose we might just as well tell you,” he said at last. “But it’s a secret and you’ll have to promise not to tell any one else.”
Henry readily agreed and Tom and Frank told him all they knew and what they suspected.
“Whew!” ejaculated Henry. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re right. I couldn’t see any sense to all that talk about boats and the West Indies and numbers, but I can now. I’ll bet those numbers were places out at sea—fifteen seconds west—and ‘Azalia’ may be the name of the ship. Say, won’t it be bully if we can find out something—radio detectives—Gee, that’s great!”