The Wireless Operator—With the U. S. Coast Guard

by Lewis E. Theiss

But the familiar scenes in Battery Park set a new train of thought in motion in his head, and utterly defeated, for the time, his plan to think out his course of action, for in front of him, as he sat on a park bench, was the old, familiar harbor, with its seething waters and its throbbing life. And straight across the rolling waves was Staten Island, where he had spent those memorable days in that never-to-be-forgotten hunt for the secret wireless of the Germans, during the war, when the Secret Service had accepted the proffered help of the Wireless Patrol in the search for the treacherous spies that were betraying the movements of American transports. How clearly all the incidents of that search for the secret wireless now stood out in Henry’s mind. He could recall, as though it had been but yesterday, the departure of the selected unit of the patrol—Roy Mercer and Lew Heinsling and Willie Brown and himself—from Central City, and their meeting with their leader, Captain Hardy, and the tedious watch for the German spies, lasting through weeks, which began in upper Manhattan and ended in Staten Island.

And when Henry thought of the snug little headquarters they had had in a private house in Staten Island, with a delightful elderly couple, he jumped to his feet and almost shouted with relief. Why hadn’t he thought of those old people before? They would take him in and tide him over until his friends returned. They would be glad to see him again, too. Henry felt sure of that, and, sighing with relief, he leaped to his feet, seized his little suit-case, and hustled over to the near-by municipal ferry-house, just in time to catch an outgoing boat for Staten Island.

Eased in mind, he now eagerly watched the harbor, thrilling with the stirring scenes before him. Six miles as the crow flies lay the course across the bay to Staten Island, and this six miles was alive with shipping. Everywhere vessels were moving. Sister ferry-boats were ploughing the waves straight toward Staten Island. In the Hudson and the East Rivers more ferry-boats were crossing back and forth. Big steamers were moving majestically along. Tugboats without number churned the choppy waves to foam, some riding in solitary state, and some towing long strings of barges at the ends of great hawsers. Others were snuggled in between big lighters, like porters with huge bandboxes under each arm. In the anchorages below the Statue of Liberty great tramp ships rode idly at anchor, awaiting cargoes. And on the opposite side of the bay, below Governor’s Island, stately sailing ships rolled gently in their moorings. Motor-boats, yachts, sailboats, even an occasional rowboat, moved this way and that. The surface of the water was crossed and recrossed with lines of yeasty foam, churned up by the passing craft, while the air was vibrant with the ceaseless tooting of ships’ whistles.

And there was Governor’s Island, with its antiquated round fort, and the ancient cannons atop of it. And farther along was the newly-made part of the island, filled in with thousands of loads of material brought by barges. On this made land now stood row upon row of government sheds and warehouses erected during the war. And Henry recalled the still more stirring scenes during those days of struggle, when every possible anchorage was occupied, and the boats of the Coast Guard went rushing about with their peremptory orders to incoming steamers, like traffic police of the harbor, as indeed they were. And as his boat drew near the ferry-house at St. George, Henry saw a Coast Guard cutter herself lying at anchor close to the Staten Island shore. How trim and beautiful she looked, in her shining white paint, with her flags flying, and her motor-boat lying lazily alongside.

But now the great ferry-boat was coming to rest in her dock. The clank of pawls, as the deck-hands made the huge craft fast, the lowering of the gangways, and the hurried rush of feet, made Henry take his gaze away from the fascinating harbor scene, for the crowd was moving and he had to move with it. In another moment he had stepped ashore and found himself outside the ferry-house.

An interesting place, indeed, was this St. George terminal. Henry had journeyed on the upper deck of the ferry-boat, and now he found himself in the upper part of the ferry-house. There were all the usual features of a great waiting-room—long rows of seats, and news-stands, and quick-lunch counters, and fruit-stands. None of these interested Henry. His attention was centred on the scene without. The edge of the island was a low-lying fringe of land, now given over wholly to shipping facilities—great wharves and piers and wide roadways skirting the water’s edge. Inland a few hundred yards the ground rose sharp and steep, and these sloping terraces were covered with buildings. Skirting the hilly heart of the island, roads wound downward, meeting directly in front of the ferry building, and reaching that structure by a long, sloping approach. These converging roads made Henry think of a huge funnel, with the sloping ferry-approach as its small end. And the idea of a funnel was carried out by the way this approach poured traffic into the ferry-terminal. Trolley cars, motor cars, and pedestrians swarmed down it in endless procession. Seemingly all the roads in Staten Island converged at the upper end of this ferry-approach, and shunted their burdens toward the crowded ferry-house.

Up this ferry-approach Henry made his way until he came to the end of it, where it split into divergent roads. A moment he stood here, waiting a favorable opportunity to cross the road. While waiting, he noticed a man on the opposite curb, who was likewise held up by the traffic, and who was evidently impatient of delay. Suddenly the man swung from the curb and tried to worm his way across the thoroughfare, among the moving vehicles. He had a bulging suit-case in one hand and a large package in the other. Henry judged that he was hurrying to catch a boat.

The stranger was halfway across the street, when a recklessly driven car, rushing up the ferry-approach, made the nearest drivers on the upper roads swing sharply to one side. That caused all the traffic to turn out. The man crossing the road was so laden with bundles that he could not move quickly enough, and he was caught directly in front of an oncoming motor truck. With a leap, Henry was at the pedestrian’s side. Seizing him by the arm, he dragged him to safety. But the car in passing knocked the parcel from the man’s arm and broke it open, scattering its contents on the road. The car behind promptly stopped, blocking the traffic. Henry snatched up the scattered contents of the parcel and jumped back to the sidewalk. Then he took the suit-case himself, while the stranger bundled the contents of the broken parcel under his arms, and together they made their way to the ferry-house.

Henry’s companion was a heavy-set man of ruddy complexion, whose strong face showed both firmness of character and kindness of spirit.

“That fellow would have got me sure,” he said indignantly, “if it hadn’t been for you, sir. They ought to put about half of these motor-car drivers in jail.”