“Well, somebody did. Here’s the telegram. It’s signed New York Morning Press.” And the postmaster fished out of his pocket two yellow telegram blanks and thrust them into Jimmy’s hand.
“Somebody has played another trick on me,” said Jimmy. “But it won’t do any good. My ship may be disabled, but I am not. There’s still the telegraph to fall back upon. I can get a message back to New York that way.”
“But you’ll need your plane to fly out to the wreck.”
“Thunderation!” said Jimmy. “Isn’t there a boat to be had?”
“Yes, but it’s terribly rough. Nobody around here would go out on the lake in a sea like the one that’s running now.”
“Well, can I get the story of the wreck here?”
“No. Nobody knows a thing about it except that the ship has piled up on the nearest island. We can see her with our glasses. But that’s all we know. That’s all we had to send to the newspapers.”
“Isn’t there any boat that can make it out to the island? I’ll pay anybody well who’ll take me out.”
“The only fellow who would dare it is that bootlegger who held you up on your former trip here. He stops at nothing. He’s got a boat specially made for rough weather.”
“Where is he?” asked Jimmy. “Can I get in touch with him?”