“It’s Frank!” fairly screamed the boy. “Tom’s in trouble! I don’t know what—he’s under the river—with Mr. Rawlins. He wants help! Sent for you! Wants police!”
Then, when at last Mr. Pauling had succeeded in grasping the message and in excited tones had shouted, “All right, I’ll be down instantly!” Frank sank limply to the floor.
But the next second he was up and at the table by the radio set.
“Have you heard anything?” he inquired anxiously of Henry, who had taken up the receivers and had been listening while Frank called Mr. Pauling.
“Not a word,” replied Henry.
“Oh, gosh! Oh, I do wish they’d hurry!” exclaimed Frank. “Oh, they’re terribly slow! And how will they get to him? How do we know where he is?”
Slowly the minutes dragged by. Each tick of the cheap clock on the table seemed to spell Tom’s fate and still no sound came from beneath the river. Once, Henry thought he caught a word,
an exclamation half suppressed, but he could not be sure. He had called Tom, but no reply had come. Were the two dead? Had some awful calamity overtaken them at the bottom of the river? Was this to be the tragic end of all their experiments? Was Tom’s death the reward for their success?
Then, from far up the street, came the clamor of a bell, and the screech of a motor horn sounded from nearer at hand.
At the same instant Henry uttered a glad, joyous cry. “They’re all right!” he shouted. “I just heard Rawlins tell Tom to go ahead!”