“Whoa!”
“We’re here,” reported Harry, springing from the peddler’s wagon.
Its owner had spread some blankets on the floor of the vehicle, making a comfortable bed for the injured man. They lifted him into the wagon box as carefully as they could.
“How shall I ever thank you, Tom?” asked Mr. Barton gratefully.
“Don’t try,” said Tom. “Just get home and get mended up, and I hope the doctor is in time to save your child.”
Tom, left alone, returned to the tower. He felt well satisfied with the way affairs were progressing. He had been able to demonstrate some practicability to Station Z, and the fact encouraged him greatly.
The storm had subsided considerably. The rain had ceased entirely, and the wind came only in occasional gusts, diminishing gradually in their violence.
It must have been an hour later when Tom, almost dozing in his chair before the operating table, gave a great start as a cheery signal whistle rang out from below.
“Ben,” he soliloquized, quite glad to welcome a companion in his loneliness.
“I’ve come,” announced his chum, appearing through the trap opening. “Ugh! but it was a tough fight part of the way! I was nearly blown into the surf once or twice.”