THE WIRELESS ISLAND. The drowsy calm of a balmy afternoon at the Motor Rangers’ wireless camp on Goat Island was abruptly shattered by a raucous, insistent clangor from the alarm-bell of the wireless outfit. Nat Trevor, Joe Hartley and Ding-dong Bell, who had been pretending to read but were in reality dozing on the porch of a small portable wood and canvas house, galvanized into the full tide of life and activity usually theirs. “Something doing at last!” cried Nat. “It began to look as if there wouldn’t be much for us on the island but a fine vacation, lots of sea-breeze and coats of tan like old russet shoes.” “What do you suppose it is?” queried Joe Hartley, his red, good-natured face aglow. “Don’t go up in the air, Joe,” cautioned Nat, “it’s probably nothing more thrilling than a weather report from one of the chain of coast stations to another.” “Get busy, Ding-dong, and find out,” urged Joe Hartley; “let’s see what sort of a message you can corral out of the air.” But young Bell was already plodding across the sand toward a small timber structure about fifty yards distant from the Motor Rangers’ camp. Above the shack stretched, between two lofty poles, the antennÆ of the wireless station. Against these the electric waves from out of space were beating and sounding the wireless “alarm-clock,” an invention of Ding-dong’s of which he was not a little proud. “I want to try it and away from home where a bunch of fellows won’t be hanging about and joking me if I make a fizzle,” he explained. As the lads while in the east had done a lot of business, some of it connected with Nat’s gold mine in Lower California and some with interests of Professor Griggs, they decided that For some further account of the three chums, we must refer our readers to the first volume of this series, The Motor Rangers’ Lost Mine. This related how Nat, the son of a poor widow, unexpectedly came into his own and from an employÉ’s position was raised to one of comparative affluence. For a holiday tour when they returned “This is Goat Island!” he banged out on the key, while the spark leaped and writhed in a “serpent” of steel-blue flame between the sparking points. It whined and squealed like an animal in pain as Ding-dong’s trembling fingers alternately depressed and released the “brass.” “Goat Island! Goat Island! Goat Island!” he repeated monotonously, and then switched the current from the sending to the receiving instruments. He adjusted his instruments to take a longer “wave” than he had been using. Instantly the breaking of the “wireless surf” against the antennÆ above the receiving shed became plainer. “This is the steamer Iroquois, San Francisco, to Central American ports,” was what Ding-dong’s pencil rapidly transcribed on the pad, while the others leaned breathlessly over his shoulder and watched the flying lead. “A passenger is dangerously hurt. We need assistance at once.” The young operator thrilled. The first message that had come to the island was an urgent one. “Where are you?” he flashed back. “Thirty miles off the coast. Who are you?” came back the reply. “Off Santa Barbara. Who are you and can you send out a boat to take our injured passenger ashore? Hospital attention is necessary.” “Wait a minute,” spelled out the young Motor Ranger’s key. He turned to the others. “You see what I’ve got,” he said indicating the pad and speaking perfectly plainly in his excitement; “what are we going to do about it?” The lads exchanged glances. It was evident as their eyes met what was in each one’s mind. The Nomad lay snugly anchored in a cove on the shoreward side of the island. A run of thirty miles out to sea was nothing for the speedy, sturdy gasolene craft, and the call that had come winging through the air from the steamer was an appeal for aid that none of them felt like refusing to heed. It was clear that the case was “Well?” queried Ding-dong. “Well?” reiterated Joe Hartley as they turned by common consent to Nat Trevor, the accepted leader of the Motor Rangers at all times. “You’d better tell the man on that ship that we’ll be alongside within two hours,” said Nat quietly; and that was all; Ding-dong, without comment, swung around to his key again. Like Joe, he had known what Nat’s decision would be almost before he gave it. Nat was not the lad to turn down an appeal like the one sent out from the Iroquois. The sea was smooth, the weather fair, but even had it been blowing half a gale it is doubtful if Nat would have hesitated a jiffy under the circumstances to perform what he adjudged to be a duty. Ding-dong speedily raised the Iroquois. “Bully for you, Goat Island,” came the rejoinder, which Ding-dong hardly waited to hear before he disconnected his instruments and “grounded” them. “Now for the Nomad,” cried Nat. “Hooray, boys! It’s good to have something come along to relieve the monotony.” “Di-di-didn’t I ter-ter-tell you so!” puffed Ding-dong triumphantly, as the three lads set out at top speed for their hut to obtain some necessary clothing and a few provisions for their run to the vessel that had sent out the wireless appeal for help. |