Everybody worked enthusiastically, and the portable radio apparatus was quickly in place, except for the aerial.
“There’s not sufficient stretch for the aerial,” said Jack. “But if we do get a chance to use the radio to call you, we can string the antennae to some trees in no time at all, make our connections, and be all fixed. I should say this would send about eight or ten miles.”
Frank steering, and Bob and Jack at the oars, the boat shot away upstream and almost immediately disappeared from sight, so dark was the night. Robbins listened intently, but the beat of the oars soon died down.
“Expert oarsmen,” he commented to himself. “Wonder who those fellows are, anyhow? They certainly act in a hurry.”
Then he went aboard to caution one of his men to remain at the radio, ready to catch the boys’ message should they call.
Meantime with oars so skilfully handled as to make scarcely any sound, the boys forged upstream. Minute after minute flew by, without a shot, or any human sound, breaking the stillness. Bend after bend was cautiously rounded, but nothing lay ahead. Several times Frank looked at his watch. An hour had passed.
“We must have come three or four miles,” he whispered. “Let’s take a breather. I’ll spell Jack when we go on. Pull in under this left bank. The trail is on the right side, and we’ll keep away from it.”
Bob and Jack pulled slowly over as Frank swung the tiller, and the boat came to rest beneath the drooping branches of a pepper tree that grew on the very edge of the stream.
“I’m afraid we can’t go much further in the boat,” Jack said anxiously, his voice barely audible. “Stream’s getting very shallow.”
“Suppose one of us pushes ahead to reconnoiter while the others stay in the boat,” suggested Frank.