“Oh, forget it,” said Frank irritably. The noise, the heat and the bustle of the city had irritated his nerves. “Come on. Let’s get out of this. I hate all this hurly-burly. If we take the Subway over to the Flatbush Avenue terminal of the Long Island Railroad, we’ll just about have time to make an express to Mineola.”
The roar of the Subway was not conducive to conversation, and little further was said until the trio boarded the train in Brooklyn, and pulled out for the short run to Mineola. Early editions of several afternoon newspapers were purchased at the terminal newsstand, and the boys settled down to 47 glance at the day’s happenings when once ensconced in the train.
Presently Frank, his irritation forgotten now that the city was being left behind, called the attention of his companions to a first page story under flaring headlines which read:
RUM RUNNERS LAND
BIG LIQUOR CARGO;
ELUDE “DRY NAVY.”
“Say, I haven’t been reading any of this stuff,” said Frank. “But after what the men told us last night about the size of these operations, and with my interest aroused by developments at Starfish Cove, I’m beginning to see that this defiance of the prohibition law is just about the most stirring thing before the Nation to-day. At least, here on the Eastern seaboard, where these smugglers are organized and have a handy base in the West Indies.”
The others nodded agreement, and the conversation proceeded in similar vein until they tumbled from the train at Mineola. Speeding to the flying field in a taxi, they were soon aboard the plane. This time Frank took the wheel. And to the friendly farewells of the mechanics, they took off and began the homeward journey. 48
After forty minutes of speedy flying, Bob, idly scanning the sky through the glass, focussed upon a tiny speck in the distance. All three had clamped on their radio receivers and hung the transmitters by straps across their shoulders. Speaking into the transmitter now, Bob announced:
“I think that radio-controlled plane is flying away from us, out to sea, off to the right. I’m going to tune up to that 1,375-meter wave length, and we’ll see if there’s a continuous dash in the receivers.”
“All right,” answered Jack, “but look out for your eardrums. The interference at that wave length is very sharp and you want to be ready to tune down at once, or your head will feel as if it were ready to burst.”
A moment later the high crashing shriek, with which Jack had become familiar of late, signalled in the receivers, and Bob promptly tuned down.