“Clang! C-l-a-n-g! Clang! Clang!—Clang! Clang!”
The effect on Tom was electrical.
“L-I in the Continental Code!” he exclaimed springing to his feet. “Hurray, Jack, old boy! Wake up! It’s our call at last!”
Jack Chadwick galvanized from his nap into vibrant action with hardly less suddenness than had marked Tom’s arousing. Three times the gong, connected by an ingenious arrangement of Jack’s with his detector, beat out brazenly the call of Lone Island. Then came the signature:
“S-K.”
“Whoop! It really is the Sea King at last!” exclaimed Jack, his blue eyes dancing. The lees of sleep had cleared from them as if by magic.
“Race you to the wireless station, Tom!” he shot out, jumping from the veranda without bothering about the steps.
“You’re on!” was the instant response. Like a flash Tom was at his side.
The few dozen yards between the bungalow and the shed of raw, resinous-smelling pine lumber that housed the wireless was covered in less time than it takes to tell it. Panting from their dash through the heavy sand the two lads flung themselves, shoulder to shoulder, at the door.
“Dead heat!” laughingly proclaimed Jack, as he opened the portal and hastened to the array of shining instruments which occupied most of the space within.