“But it was late at night. They would all have been in bed,” objected Billy.
“Well, it’s worth trying, anyhow, so here goes.” Frank sat down at the key of the Golden Eagle’s wireless, and began tapping out “White Willow—White Willow—Willow—White Willow,” till his hand ached.
“No good, I guess,” he said, discouraged, as, after quite a time, no response to his call came.
“I always thought that old feller at White Willow was loco,” remarked one of the crowd.
Suddenly, however, Frank held up his hand.
“He’s answering,” he cried.
Sure enough, over the wires came the question:
“Here’s White Willow. Who wants White Willow? For five years I’ve been trying to get a call here, and no one ever came. Who are you?”
“We are the Boy Aviators,” tapped back Frank, while the miners and cowboys gazed in awe at the blue flame ripping and crackling across its gap. “Have you seen two autos pass through White Willow?”
“They have not passed through. They are here now,” was the astonishing response.