And so when Guy and his mother started for Liverpool, the former had in his trunk a box containing a pair of seemingly ordinary, well made shoes and a detached arrangement of insulated wires and belt antenna. On a card in his purse, he had also, as a memorandum, the name and New York address of Stanley Pickett, to whom Smithers had requested him to express the shoes.
Guy was especially sorry to part with Artie Fletcher. It seemed like saying good-by to a chum of years. Of course, they agreed to write to each other, and Artie promised to be careful when out in the fog and to inform Guy if he saw or heard anything more of the highwayman of the “funny voice.”
The liner, Herculanea, on which Mrs. Burton and her son took passage at Liverpool was larger than the one on which they had made their first voyage, affording a greater variety of service, convenience, and entertainment. Guy found a new general pleasure on this trip, in that he was permitted to view things without colored glasses. It seemed almost like traveling on a new sea, in a new world, among a new kind of people and on a new kind of ship.
On the first day out, a chance incident caused him to make the acquaintance of the second mate, and in the conversation that followed, Guy disclosed his interest in wireless telegraphy. The officer was sociable and obliging and introduced the boy to the operator in the radio house near the bridge. The latter, too, proved to be a good-natured fellow, although perpetually busy, and allowed the “radio boy” to listen in several times.
Guy made another acquaintance also while the steamer was passing from Liverpool to Queensland. It was with a man who occupied a stateroom next to his. This passenger was a very talkative fellow, with a peculiar knack of seeming to say a good deal every time he spoke. He was straight-built, of medium height and weight, wore a mustache and goatee, and bore himself with the manner of one subconsciously wise. Guy was well impressed with him at first because he was lively and interesting.
“I dropped a bunch of keys somewhere around here,” were the words with which this passenger first addressed himself to Burton. The latter had just come out of his stateroom and was moving toward the stairway to join his mother on the promenade when “the man next door” spoke to him.
“I didn’t see them,” Guy replied, delaying just long enough to be courteous and then moving on.
He reached the promenade and found his mother where he had left her, one of a group of some twenty passengers, all watching the shifting scene between them and the English shore. The steamer was plowing through St. George’s channel, and the dominant feature of the scene consisted of vessels of all sorts, big and small, and seemingly without number.
A few minutes later the stateroom neighbor of the Burtons approached and took a seat near the boy. The latter did not observe him at once, but when he did, the man greeted him with a careless smile that inspired confidence and familiarity:
“Did you find your keys?” inquired Guy.