The charter-man was speedily up into the open.
In the meantime Joe, at the powerful sending apparatus below, sent the spark leaping across the spark-gap, and, dashing up the aerials, there shot into space the electric waves intended to be gathered in by any other wireless operator within fifty or sixty miles.
Crash-sh! Ass-ss-ssh! hissed the spark, 158 bounding, leaping to its work like a thing of almost animal life.
Bang! This last note that came on the air was sharp, clear, though not loud. Whew-ew! A bullet uttered a swift sigh as it sped past the signaling mast twenty feet over the heads of the watchers of the “Restless.”
“Confound it! Rascals on shore are shooting at us,” exclaimed Powell Seaton, turning swiftly to peer at the forest-clad shore line.
“No; they’re shooting at our aerials!” retorted Captain Tom Halstead.
Bang! Whe-ew-ew! Clash! Then there was a metallic clash, for the second rifle shot from the land had scored a fair bull’s-eye among the clustered aerial wires. There was a rattle, and some of the severed wire ends hung down.
With an ugly grunt, Hepton bounded down into the motor room, passing up the two rifles.
“We must be careful, though,” warned Mr. Seaton. “This time they’re not shooting at us.”
“Load and be ready, though!” uttered Captain Tom, dryly. “They soon will be shooting at us.”