“Well, Jack, old fellow,” observed Raynor, as Jack leaned back after sending a few routine messages of farewell and business of the ship, “off again on our travels.”
“Yes, and this time, thank goodness, we’re under Uncle Sam’s flag, and that means a whole lot in these days.”
“It does, indeed,” agreed the other fervently, “but have you any idea what port we are bound for?”
“Not as yet. We are to get instructions by wireless, either from the New York or London offices.”
“This a queer job we’ve embarked on, Jack,” resumed Raynor, after a pause in which Jack had “picked up” Nantucket and exchanged greetings.
“It is indeed. I only hope we can carry it through successfully. At any rate, it will give us an opportunity to see something of the war for ourselves.”
“It’s a great chance, but as to finding Tom Jukes, I must say I agree with you that a needle in a hay stack isn’t one, two, three with it.”
A heavily built man, dark bearded and mustached, entered the wireless cabin. He had a despatch ready written in his hand.
“Send this as soon as possible, please,” he said, handing it to Jack.
As his eyes met those of the young wireless man he gave a perceptible start which, however, was unnoticed by either of the boys. Raynor was paying no particular attention to the matter in hand and Jack was knitting his brows over the despatch. It was in code, to an address in New York and was signed Martin Johnson.