“KQM de WNA,” he flashed. “Is there any way you can signal me and blow your whistle at the same time?” he asked.
“Yes,” came the answer. “The captain and I will set our watches together and send the two signals simultaneously. I’ll send three V’s. Listen.”
Roy sprang up and opened his door, then leaped back to his operating table. He clamped on his receivers, laid his watch on the table before him, and watched it in breathless expectation.
His heart beat like a trip-hammer. The blood pounded in his brain. His face was flushed with excitement. Somewhere out there in the fog the great steamship was rushing toward the Lycoming. She might be a mile away, she might be three hundred yards. The two might crash before ever he heard the signals he was waiting for. Tense, rigid, yet inwardly aquiver, Roy laid his finger on his key, ready to sound the SOS. Then he listened. For what seemed an age he listened. The wind shrieked and howled. The Lycoming’s whistle boomed. The windows rattled. The rain beat a tattoo on the roof. But no wireless signal greeted Roy’s ears. He could hardly hold himself in his chair. Then it came. “V—V—V,” went the signal. Roy noted the position of the second-hand on his watch and waited breathlessly for the sound of the Merrimack’s whistle.
One second passed—two—three—four—five.
“Mmmmmmmmm!” came the roar of the Merrimack’s whistle.
“Five seconds,” said Roy. “She’s almost a mile away. Thank God.”
He pressed his key. Once more blue sparks leaped in his spark-gap.
“KQM de WNA. Five seconds difference,” he flashed. “You must be about a mile away. Try it again.”
“WNA de KQM,” came back the answer. “Will repeat. Listen.”