“This is Goat Island!” he banged out on the key, while the spark leaped and writhed in a “serpent” of steel-blue flame between the sparking points. It whined and squealed like an animal in pain as Ding-dong’s trembling fingers alternately depressed and released the “brass.”
“Goat Island! Goat Island! Goat Island!” he repeated monotonously, and then switched the current from the sending to the receiving instruments.
Against his ears came a tiny pattering so faint as to be hardly distinguishable. Yet the boy knew that the instruments must be “in tune,” or nearly so, with whatever station was sending wireless waves through space, else the “alarm” would not have been sprung.
He adjusted his instruments to take a longer “wave” than he had been using. Instantly the breaking of the “wireless surf” against the antennæ above the receiving shed became plainer.
“This is the steamer Iroquois, San Francisco, to Central American ports,” was what Ding-dong’s pencil rapidly transcribed on the pad, while the others leaned breathlessly over his shoulder and watched the flying lead. “A passenger is dangerously hurt. We need assistance at once.”
The young operator thrilled. The first message that had come to the island was an urgent one.
“Where are you?” he flashed back.
“Thirty miles off the coast. Who are you?” came back the reply.
“Thirty miles off where?” whanged out Ding-dong’s key, while he grumbled at the indefiniteness of the operator on the steamer.
“Off Santa Barbara. Who are you and can you send out a boat to take our injured passenger ashore? Hospital attention is necessary.”