CHAPTER I
AN UNEXPECTED OPPORTUNITY
The coastwise steamer Lycoming was being warped into her berth along the Hudson River in New York City. A fussy, little tug was pushing against the Lycoming’s bow, while other puffing, bustling tugs butted the great ship astern, in an effort to swing the vessel at right angles to the stream and push her into her dock. On the Lycoming’s lower deck sailors stood ready to cast great hawsers ashore the moment the ship should be within reach of the pier. As motionless as though he were a part of the ship itself, the captain stood on the bridge, silent and watchful, giving occasional orders. The upper decks were alive with passengers, who swarmed to the rail, eagerly scanning the faces of the still distant crowd on the pier. Now some passenger identified the face of a friend ashore, and again some one waiting on the pier discovered a friend on board the steamer, and cheery greetings were called back and forth across the ever-narrowing strip of muddy water that separated the great ship from her pier.
As the vessel slid nearer, the excitement increased. More and more persons on shipboard and on the pier recognized friends and called to them. A very babel of voices arose. The scuffling and tramping of feet intensified the noise. Passengers descended to the lower decks and the people on the pier crowded forward toward the waiting gangplank. The tugs snorted and puffed, churning the water into yeasty foam. From the pier came the rumble and rattle of little hand trucks and the crash and bang of boxes and cases, which a gang of stevedores was piling in a corner for shipment. Outside arose the roar of the street traffic—the clatter of iron shod hoofs on hard paving-stones, the throbbing and churning of innumerable motors, the rattle of trucks and wagons, and the shrill cries of newsies, street venders, taxi drivers, and baggage porters.
The huge steamer was almost in her berth, and the sailors were in the very act of casting their lines ashore, when the door of the wireless cabin, a snug little structure perched on the very top deck of the Lycoming, swung open, and a trim young man, dressed in a well-fitting uniform of the Marconi Service, stepped to the side of the ship. He was the wireless operator, and in his hand he carried a pair of powerful binoculars. Steadying himself against the rail, he slowly swept his glance along the line of faces that fringed the pier. Presently his glasses came to rest. For a single moment they remained stationary. Then the wireless man slipped his binoculars into his pocket, cupped his hands in front of his mouth, and leaned over the rail, giving a long, peculiar whistle. It was the signal of the Camp Brady Wireless Patrol. Apparently the signal was unheard. When the wireless man repeated it, a youthful face, almost hidden by the people on the pier, was upturned. A smile came on the waiting lad’s face. His arms shot up in silent greeting.
“Come to the gangway,” shouted the wireless man through his cupped hands.
There was a little commotion in the crowd on the pier, as the lad to whom the wireless man had called tried to force his way through the crowd toward the gangway. But he was so small, being scarcely larger than a boy, in fact, that he could hardly press forward through the crowd. The heavy suit case he carried made it all the more difficult for him. While the lad was still struggling toward the gangplank, the wireless man slipped down ladder and stairs with the grace and agility of a cat, and within a few seconds stood on the lower deck beside the sailors, who were waiting to make fast the gangplank.
“Just let that little fellow there come aboard,” said the wireless man, pointing to his friend who was still struggling to get through the crowd.
“Aye, aye, Mr. Mercer,” called back a husky hand on the dock, who stood ready to help shove the gangplank into place. Then, turning around, the huge fellow shouldered his way through the crowd, whisked the suit case out of the little lad’s hand, and opened a way for him through the press. In another moment the gangplank was run out and made fast; and before the little lad knew what was happening, he and his suit case were bundled up the gangplank and aboard ship. A second later the eager passengers were pouring down the gangway in a torrent.
Eagerly the visiting lad caught the outstretched hand of the wireless man, and they stepped to one side, out of the way. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Willie Brown,” said the wireless man, shaking his friend’s hand again and again. “Gee! But I sure am glad to see you.”
“You can’t be any more pleased to see me than I am to see you, Roy.” Then the little visitor drew back a pace and admired his friend. “Gee whiz!” he said. “Just look at your fine uniform. I guess it’s true that clothes make the man. Why, I heard that dock hand even call you Mister. Think of that! You don’t catch me calling you Mister, even if you are the wireless operator. You’re just plain Roy Mercer of the Camp Brady Wireless Patrol to me.”