"Westinghouse Electric and Manufacturing Company KYW Chicago, Illinois. Stand by fifteen minutes for——" but the rest of the sentence was lost, for with a mighty slap of his knees Jerry roared:
"It was in Chicago—that band! Well, I'll be buttered!"
Overwhelmed the Cape Codder had risen to his feet.
"Chicago! Pittsburgh! Medford! My eye, but this will do me to talk about until the day of my death. It don't seem possible; I'm beat if it does."
Helplessly he dropped back into his chair again, silenced by very wonder.
In the meantime out of the wailing and whining and piping the sharp, clear-cut click of a telegraph instrument could be discerned.
"That's the Morse code," explained Bob. "Some commercial station is sending a message. It seems to be about a shipment of lumber and isn't particularly interesting."
"I suppose you can read it," said Dick enviously.
"Naturally. That is part of my job, you know."
"What is a commercial station?" inquired the still bewildered Jerry.