“And my sisters and your mother and Lilian going along!” sighed Whistler.
“Nice mess, isn’t it?” groaned the other. “That spy will make use of the information sure!—if he can.”
“When will the Redbird sail?”
“Next month, some time. Of course, I’ll try to send father word about this. But you know what the censor does to a fellow’s letters. And to cable would be worse.”
“Wait a minute!” cried Whistler. “That spy couldn’t benefit very well by the information himself. He’s here in England and your father’s ship will sail from New York, won’t it?”
“I suppose so. From ‘an Atlantic port.’ You know, that’s as near as they would let him tell in a letter. And don’t worry about the Huns not being benefited by the information. They’ll find some way. They have wireless stations along our United States coast. And every U-boat carries a wireless.”
“So do our subs,” Whistler rejoined. “But they are of small radius. The English coast is cleaned out of Hun radio stations.”
“They have ’em on the islands off Ireland and Scotland,” returned Belding. “That spy is some smart chap, Phil. I’m awfully worried. I’ll write father, of course, as clearly as the censorship will allow. But it may be too late. The Redbird may have sailed—or a U-boat may sink the mail ship.”
“You don’t want to lose your courage over it,” advised the Seacove youth. “We mustn’t expect the worst. Of course, with Phoebe and Alice aboard I shall be worried until we hear that they have arrived safely at Bahia.”
“And it takes a long time for a sailing ship to reach that place from our North Atlantic seaports,” responded Belding.