Several more shots clattered out, and two more of the bullets did further damage among the aerial wires. Then Joe came dancing up on deck, his eyes full of ire. 159
“The infernal scoundrels have put our spark out of business,” he cried, disgustedly. “We haven’t wire enough left to send five miles. Where do the shots come from?”
“From the shore,” Halstead replied, “but see for yourself if you can locate the marksmen. We can’t. They’re using smokeless powder, and are hidden so far in under the trees that we can’t even make out the flashes.”
“It’s out of my line to locate them,” announced Joe Dawson, with vigor. “It’s mine to see that the aerials are put on a working basis again.”
He vanished, briefly, into the motor room, soon reappearing with a coil of wire and miscellaneous tools.
“Good!” commended Halstead, joyously. “Mr. Seaton, we have wire enough to repair a dozen smashes, if need be. On up with you, Joe. I’m at your heels.”
Joe started to climb the mast, using the slightly projecting footholds placed there for that purpose. Tom let him get a clear lead, then started up after his chum.
From the shore broke out a rapid, intermittent volley. Steel-clad bullets sang a song full of menace about that signal mast.
“Come down, boys! You’ll be killed!” roared Mr. Seaton, looking up apprehensively. 160
While Joe kept on climbing, in silence, Skipper Tom looked down with a cool grin.