That the situation was about as grave as possible, could have been gathered by the expression of their faces as they interpreted the meaning of the signals.
The S.O.S. was frequent and insistent. Latitude and longitude of the vessel were given as nearly as the operator could determine them, and the more extended appeals that followed were of the most urgent character.
“Collided with a lumber schooner. Part of bow torn away. Water coming in rapidly. Pumps almost useless. Getting ready to take to the boats. Hurry! Hurry!”
Again and again, these and similar appeals were sent out into the night.
“Now we know how our people felt when their boat was sinking, that time we were at Ocean Point,” murmured Bob, soberly.
“Let’s hope an answer will come to us as it came to them,” observed Joe, in a voice not too much surcharged with hope.
“It may come any minute,” replied Bob, encouragingly. “Remember, we’re not out in the middle of the ocean, but in a lane that’s full of ships. Some of them will be sure to answer. Look, he’s getting something now.”
The boys watched the operator as he suddenly bent over his instrument intently. And their own faces shared his look of relief when they heard the message.
“United States naval vessel Meteor,” it ran. “Coming as fast as we dare to in this fog.”
A moment later came a second message from a merchant steamer that had caught the S. O. S. and was steaming to their assistance.