"I wish I could have talked with O'Connel," declared Bob thoughtfully. "I did all I dared. You see, until our license comes I am not expected to transmit messages from this station. We have to get from the government both an operator's license and a permit for the station; and although I put in the application promptly there is so much red tape about it that it seems as if the inspector would never show up. If I had been caught sending a message this morning without these blooming papers there would have been the deuce of a row. However, I took a chance because I felt the emergency demanded it, and because being one of Uncle Sam's own men he couldn't very well put up the kick that I was not competent to handle a wireless outfit. Still, I shan't dare do it again."
"Isn't there anything we can do to hustle up the inspector?" inquired Dick.
"I'm afraid not, son. Government inspectors are not a hurrying race," was Bob's whimsical reply. "However, I telephoned our local man yesterday and something may happen to-day. He and I used to be on quite good terms when he occasionally dropped in at Seaver Bay. I told him that if I could not get a station license pretty soon our whole outfit would be no good to us this season. He promised he would take up the matter at once. With that I had to be satisfied. Whether he does anything or not remains to be seen."
"I suppose O'Connel understands this difficulty, doesn't he?" mused Dick.
"Oh, he knows, all right, why I can't answer him. I've assured him that his tidings have come through and that is all he wants to know," Bob answered. "He has dealt with the government himself and is familiar with its deliberate habits. Besides, there really isn't much we can say."
"Maybe you think that," grinned Dick, "but wait until you tell Dad that Lola is sick and hear him sputter. You will believe then that there is quite a bit that can be said. And if you get my mother to add her comments you will have plenty to relay over the wire."
The prophecy was indeed true, as Bob King proved after he had raced across the grass and overtaken Mr. and Mrs. Crowninshield on a tour of inspection to the rose gardens.
"News, Bob?" questioned the capitalist, wheeling about to meet the flying figure. "What is it? Let us have it quickly."
Carefully the message was repeated.
"Off Gloucester, eh, and bound north? Humph! And they've re-christened the poor little pupsie Trixie! Hang them! O'Connel thinks she isn't well? Of course she isn't seasick. Lola has been out on our yacht a hundred times. The reason she won't eat is because she is lonesome—misses her home and family. The wretches! I wish I had Daly here! I'd wring his neck," blustered Mr. Crowninshield.