“Good for the wireless!” exclaimed Tom, with a genuine flush of delight.
He felt well satisfied with the exploit of the moment. He was flushed, bedraggled and exhausted, but there was the thrill of a big action accomplished and the utility of Station Z established.
Tom glanced longingly in the direction of Fernwood and then at his soaked shoes, and shook his head dolefully.
“It won’t do,” he ruminated. “Grace is probably offended at me for bolting away so unceremoniously, and I’ll wait until I can make my apologies in better trim.”
Tom kept a patch of timber between himself and the Morgan place, and reached the beach road on a detour. He was summarily halted as he passed the flight of steps leading up to the terrace. A silvery but peremptory voice called out:
“Stop there, Tom Barnes!”
Grace Morgan came tripping down the steps a minute later. There was a pretty pout of pettishness on her winsome face, and her eyes did not look altogether pleased.
“What do you mean by running away from me, sir?” she challenged, gaining the side of Tom, and regarding him as if she was never going to forgive him.
“Business is my only excuse,” explained Tom meekly.
“You mean with my father?”