All the afternoon he worked diligently at his desk. When five o’clock came, he put away his things and stepped to Mr. King’s door. “I’m going to work at my wireless until the building closes, Mr. King,” he said.
His superior nodded and Willie went into his wireless room. He was very particular nowadays to let his boss know where he was. If only he could find some one who knew where he was during that fatal three-quarters of an hour, when the papers were stolen. He must hunt and hunt until he did find some one.
He sat down at his wireless, adjusted his headpiece, threw over his switch and listened in, preparatory to sending out the first call he had selected to make that afternoon. Day after day during the two weeks or more that had elapsed since the papers were taken, he had been calling up amateur after amateur, asking the same question: “Have you any recollection of ever hearing the call CBWC sent out by CBM?” Always came the answer, “No.”
Now he was about to go on with his seemingly hopeless quest. But just as he put his finger to his key, to flash out the first of the signal calls, he was startled by hearing his own signal.
“CBM—CBM—CBM de KWC.”
Two or three times he had been able to call to his fellows back home, during the noon hour. Doubtless he could have talked with them every night, if he had had access to his wireless then. But this was the very first time that he had heard anybody call him. It gave him a strange feeling. Quickly he flashed out his answer.
“KWC—KWC—KWC de CBM—I—I—I.” (Ward liner, Morro Castle, Willie Brown answering. Go ahead.)
“This is Reynolds,” came the message. “Been trying all the morning to get you.”
“Where are you?” flashed back Willie.
“Off the Jersey coast, about opposite the Hook.”