“Anything yet?”
“No; silent as the grave. Suppose you go on deck and see what Captain Andrews and Jupe have observed.”
Ned was back from his errand in a short space of time. His face bore a well-pleased grin, as Jack could see in the light of the solitary incandescent which illumined the cabin, the shades having, of course, been drawn across the portholes before it was switched on.
“Well?” questioned Jack.
“Well,” echoed Ned, “everything is going famously. The light stopped moving outside the bar, and presently Captain Andrews heard the rattle of her anchor chains as she let go her mud-hooks. Everything has been quiet since.”
“Too quiet. I wish——”
Jack broke off suddenly, holding up a hand to Ned to command silence. Out of space the electric waves were beginning to break against the aerials above. The Tarantula was talking to some one on shore in a rapid stream of dots and dashes. Jack’s hand flew across the recording pad. As before, the paper was soon covered with figures—the code which Tom had exploded.
After half an hour, during which his hand had frequently sought the tuning apparatus. Jack’s labors ceased; but his face bore a radiant expression.
“The message had a lot in it about us, and my father and the rest,” he said. “They did not codify our names, but spelled them right out. That’s how I know. They——”
“Hadn’t you better listen in case there’s any more coming?” asked Ned.