“I heard nothing about it,” repeated Ruth.
“Come on. Let’s look and see,” said the chief officer of the steamship. “Something is dead wrong here. Sparks surely would not have left his post unless the radio had completely broken down. Why, if we could manipulate the radio we’d call for help now—you and I, Miss Fielding.”
He led the way swiftly along the deck. The radio station had been built into the forward house, for the Admiral Pekhard was an old steamship, her keel having been laid long before Marconi made his dream come true.
The staff from which the antennae were strung shot up into the darkness farther than they could well see. There was a single small window far up on either side of the house for circulation of air only. There seemed to be no life about the radio room.
Mr. Dowd tried the door. It did not yield. He shook it—or tried to—crying:
“Sparks! Sparks! Hey! Where are you?”
He was answered by a voice from inside the radio room. It was not a pleasant voice, and the words it first uttered were not polite, to say the least. The man inside ended by demanding:
“What in the name of Mike was meant by locking me into this room?”
“Great Land!” gasped Dowd. “It’s Rollife himself.”
“And you know darned well it’s Rollife,” pursued the radio man. “Let me come out!” and he went on to roll out threats that certainly were not meant for Ruth’s ears.