The color flew back into Roy’s cheeks. His heart began to pound bravely. His pulses beat with courage.
“We’ve got to help him, every one of us!” he cried aloud. “What can I do? What can I do?”
A still, small voice answered, “Your duty.”
“My duty,” said Roy aloud, “is right at that instrument. That’s my post as long as this storm lasts.”
He shoved his chair across the room, sat down at his desk, and clamped the receivers to his ears. He was just in time to catch a message. The United States Weather Bureau at New Orleans, seven hundred miles away, was sending out a storm warning to Louisiana coast towns and other places along the Gulf which the hurricane had not yet reached. “Tropical disturbance in southeastern Gulf moving northwest will cause increasing northeast winds.”
According to rule, Roy jotted down the time the message was received. It was just ten o’clock.
“I wonder if I should give this to the captain,” said Roy, with a grin. “He might like to know there’s going to be a storm.”
Then his face became sober enough and he settled to work. For long periods he listened for voices in the storm. Again and again he flashed out messages to ships that he thought should be near, but he could reach nobody. After a time he got an answer from the Comal, with which he had talked before. She was still fast to her moorings in Key West, but in imminent danger of being torn away. Even as Roy talked to her it happened.
“We’re loose,” flashed her operator to Roy, “and blowing ashore. I’ve got to stand by to send messages for the skipper. Good-bye. Good luck to you.”