“I know, but—”
“Gee, fella, when we’re out of this mess, I’ll take a week or two off and go into detail. But right now, I’ve got to raise the Stamford!”
He sat down in the chair before the sending apparatus and adjusted the earphones. Then his left hand sought the sending key and the room was filled with the crash and snap of electric discharges.
Osceola took up a pencil and pad from the table. For a moment he scribbled, then placed the written sheet in front of Bill.
“Go easy!” the message read. “You’ll wake up the whole ship!”
Bill smiled and shook his head. He was sending call after call out for the Stamford. In his right hand he held a pencil. Presently Osceola’s note was passed back with a few lines scrawled below his own.
“Don’t worry. These fellows are continually sending out fake messages in order to gain information from other ships. I’ve heard them. If nothing was sent during this watch, somebody on the bridge would be sure to smell a rat.”
Osceola drew up a chair and sat down. Fascinated, he watched Bill’s left hand pressing the sending key, calling—calling—calling. The young Seminole’s education had been academic, not scientific, and his knowledge of radio was only rudimentary. Although the International Morse Code of dash-dot letters was as much of a mystery to him as it is to the average layman, he soon realized that his friend was sending out the same short message over and over again.
Suddenly Bill lifted his hand from the key. He smiled at Osceola, nodded and commenced to write hurriedly on the pad before him. The Seminole leaned over and watched intently.
“This is the Stamford. Who calls?” he read.