“Plymouth sighted in a great sleet storm off Despair Bay two nights since. Dismasted, no one seen on board, and a drifting wreck.”
“And Randall was aboard of the Plymouth,” quavered Professor Barrington, “and the film—the great film!”
“Don’t take it so hard, Professor,” said Frank in a soothing tone, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Your friend may have escaped.”
“No, no, Durham,” groaned the professor. “It would not be the way of Randall to neglect advising me by the first wire if he had met with a disaster and had escaped.”
“And as to the great film—is it really that, now?” went on Frank.
“Can you ask that, after knowing that half I had in the world was staked on the securing of motorphoto pictures on a subject never yet covered by the film maker? Think of it! That unique variety of subjects, showing the crowning glories of the universe. Ah, it is a cruel blow!”
“Frank, is it something serious?” whispered Pep, stepping to the side of his chum. Frank did not reply. He stood for a moment lost in thought, his eyes fixed on Professor Barrington. He appeared to be groping mentally to find some means of relieving the distress of his friend.
Suddenly Frank’s face lit up as if he had solved a problem. His hand went to an inside pocket and he drew out a wallet well filled with bank notes. He ran them over, estimating what sum they represented, rather than actually counting them. The inspection seemed satisfactory and Frank replaced the money in his pocket. Then Pep, who had watched every shadow that crossed his face, saw the impression there that always told that his clever chum had made up his mind to something.
Professor Barrington crouched in his chair as if all his hopes had been crushed. He had sunk into a kind of lethargy of despair. Frank roused him with the words:
“I am going to find out.”