“Some, perhaps, if the gale and the storm keep up,” replied Joe Dawson. “But I imagine the worst of the gale is passing now.”
And so it proved. An hour later the rain was falling steadily, though only in a drizzle. The wind had moderated a good deal.
As all hands, save Hank, sat in the sitting room of the bungalow, after the meal, the warning bell from the apparatus room suddenly tinkled.
“You see, sir,” said Joe, rising quickly, “the wireless is still able to work.”
He passed into the next room, seating himself by the instruments and slipping on the head-band that held the receivers.
“From Beaufort, sir,” Joe said, presently, looking up. “The police report that no such schooner has landed at that city.”
“Acknowledge the message of the police,” directed Mr. Seaton, “and ask them not to give up 46 the lookout through the night. Tell the chief of police that I’ll gladly meet any expense that may be incurred.”
Joe’s right hand reached out for the sending-key. Then a blank look flashed across his face.
“Something wrong with the sending-key connections,” he explained, in a low voice, leaping up. He examined the connections closely, yet, the more he looked, the more puzzled he became.
“The storage batteries can’t have given out,” he muttered, snatching up a lighted lantern. “But I’ll go and look at them.”