“Here, take this to the captain; hurry it along now,” said Jack, handing him the dispatch. “I guess he’ll be interested. Wait a minute,” he added suddenly. “There’s the Tennyson of the Lamport & Holt line talking to the Dorothea of the United Fruit, and the battleship Iowa is cutting in. All talking weather.”
It was true. From ship to ship, borne on soundless waves, the news was being eagerly discussed.
“Big storm on the way,” announced the Tennyson.
“We should worry,” came flippantly through the ether from the Dorothea.
“You little fellows better take in your sky-sails and furl your funnels; you’ll be blown about like chicken feathers in a gale of wind,” came majestically from Uncle Sam’s big warship.
Then the air was filled with a clamor for more news from the Neptune Beach operator.
“You fellows give me a pain,” he flashed out, depressing and releasing his key snappily. “I’ve sent out all I can. Don’t you think I know my job?”
“Let us know at once when you get anything more,” came commandingly from the battleship.
“Oh, you Iowa, boss of the job, aren’t you?” remarked the flippant Dorothea.
“M-M-M!” (laughter) in the wireless man’s code came from all the others, Jack included. The air was vibrant with silent chuckles.