Jack threw over the switch to connect the transmitting appliances, and began manipulating the key once more.
The message of distress crackled and flashed, like the snapping of a whip lash,—or, more truly, a thousand of them.
Jack was utilizing every atom of power he could obtain. He calculated that he had at least one hundred and ten volts of current, which should be ample to send his messages for a great distance.
After sending for a while he stopped and listened. But no message came beating against his ears, breathing a spirit of hope.
“Try sending out a C. Q. D.,” said Abner Jennings.
“You mean S. O. S.,” rejoined Jack. “C. Q. D. isn’t used as an urgent call any more. Too many would-be jokers used to send it out and cause endless confusion.”
He threw the switch again into a sending position, and began to flash out another message.
“o o o —— —— —— o o o” “S. O. S.”
It was the most urgent call known to seamen. The despairing cry of the wrecked the lost.
Again and again Jack volleyed it out, and the far-flung appeal went skyrocketing off on the electric waves, spreading like the ripples on a pond from the tightly stretched aerials. It was signed “The Chadwick Party.”