“So much the better. I mean to ‘wig-wag’ the fleet with it and tell them the fix we are in.”
“Say, Ned,” cried Herc enthusiastically, “you ought to be a judge or a lawyer or an inventor or something.”
“Thanks. I’d rather be a sailor.”
Ned pulled out his handkerchief and began wig-wagging with it. A sentry on duty in front of the cells, which were open-fronted to admit cool air, looked at him in surprise, but said nothing.
About that time the officer of the deck on the Manhattan happened to have his official spy-glass leveled at the rock. He saw the signal that Ned was so frantically waving and summoned a signalman.
“Signalman! Somebody is wig-wagging us from the rock. Take the glasses and see what they want.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
It was not long before Ned had conveyed by his ingenious plan a clear idea of their predicament to those on the flag-ship. Captain Dunham was informed of the matter.
“Those lads in trouble again!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, sir; but it was not their fault. The British are very touchy about their rock and suspect everybody of being spies. I guess that’s how it happened.”