A CALL FROM THE SHORE.

It was early the next morning that the “wireless alarm” summoned Joe from his couch. Sleepily he made his way to the wireless hut and was soon in communication with Nat. Something had gone wrong with the Nomad’s wireless, it appeared, and Ding-dong’s new station was not in working order. This was the reason that Joe had not been called up the night before.

“Anything happened?” asked Nat.

“Lots,” tapped out Joe sententiously, “but you’ll have to wait to hear all about it till you get over here.”

Nat rejoined that he would be over about noon, and then Joe, in order to keep his mind occupied, set about a general cleaning up of the wireless instruments and a thorough “spring cleaning” of the shanty.

This work occupied him so busily that he had little time to notice the weather, and it was not till a sudden downpour of rain beat a tattoo on the roof of the wireless hut that he looked out. The sky was overcast and quite a brisk sea was running. The wind, too, was blowing pretty strong.

“Nasty weather,” thought Joe, “but that won’t worry the Nomad.”

Just then came another call from Nat. The Nomad was about half an hour away from the island and making good time despite the big seas.

“Will be home to dinner,” flashed Nat, and Joe flashed back “M-M-M,” which, in telegrapher’s language, signifies “laughter.”

The Nomad came into the cove on schedule time. Her white sides were wet and glistening with spray, and Nat and Nate Spencer in their oilskins looked every inch the young seamen when they came ashore in the dinghy, the same one, by-the-way, that had been recovered from Whale Creek.

Over the meal that followed their arrival, Joe told his story amid frequent interruptions. When he came to the narrative of young Dolliver and the mysterious man who was dwelling in the elder Dolliver’s ranch house, Nat agreed with him that in all probability they had, by an extraordinary coincidence, crossed Minory’s trail once more. Of course it might be a mistaken supposition, but Nat agreed with Joe that it was at least worth while investigating.

“I’ll take a stroll around after dinner and look at the weather,” said Nat. “If it isn’t too rough we can run over in the Nomad, but after all, possibly it would be just as effective to call up Ding-dong and let him communicate with the authorities.”

While Joe and Nate washed dishes and otherwise set things to rights, Nat started out on his tramp. It was still raining hard and blowing harder, with a nasty, choppy gray sea running.

“Pretty dusty,” commented Nate, looking out of the window on the dreary seascape.

But within the shanty all was snug and warm and cheerful, and when Nat returned in half an hour or so, he found a picture of comfort awaiting him. He divested himself of his wet oilskins and heavy boots before he spoke, and then he had some remarkable news to impart.

“There’s a small schooner of not more than thirty-five or forty tons anchored off the southerly end of the island,” he said.

Nate looked up instantly. It was clear that to his seaman’s mind the news was puzzling.

“What in the world will she be anchored there for?” he asked in an astonished voice. “If she’s hove to to ride out the storm, why doesn’t she come into the cove?”

“Just what puzzled me,” said Nat. “I watched her from behind some sand dunes, but not a sign of life could I see on her decks. She looks like a fishing schooner, and yet there are no dories piled up on her deck, which makes it look all the more odd.”

“It does that,” agreed Nate; “and anyhow, fishermen wouldn’t heave to for this bit of a blow.”

“I’ll tell you what, Nate,” said Nat presently, “suppose you go and take a look at her. Then come back and tell us how you size her up. You’re sailorman enough to know a craft by the cut of her jib, and maybe you will know what vessel this is.”

“All right,” assented Nate cheerfully. “I’ll slip into my oilers, get around there and be back in two shakes of a duck’s tail.”

“And, oh, Nate, don’t show yourself if you can help it. There’s plenty of cover behind the salt grass that grows on the dunes.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Nate assured him, “I’ll be as invisible as Mort Kennedy, who owes me ten dollars, is every payday.”

The sturdy fellow strode out into the storm, leaving the two boys alone.

“Are you troubled because that fishing schooner is lying to off the island?” asked Joe, as Nate slammed the door behind him.

“Frankly, I don’t quite like the look of it,” rejoined Nat; “if she is lying to because of the storm, the cove is the natural place for her to seek shelter and not the open sea.”

“That’s right, it has a funny look. Say, Nat, you don’t think that old Israel Harley can be on board, do you?”

“I don’t know, Joe; I don’t know what to think. He is a daring old villain, and he has no reason to love us. After what Hank told you yesterday, it behooves us to be on the watch constantly. Till that schooner goes away, we can’t leave the island.”

“Then I’d better send a flash to Ding-dong. I wonder if his station is working yet?”

“It ought to be, but in that case I should think he’d have given us a call.”

“Well, we can try it, anyhow. Come on down to the hut while I get busy with the instruments.”

The two boys tried for a long time to raise Ding-dong, sending out the call “D-B,” the prearranged signal, incessantly. But no answer came for a long time, and when it did it was hardly satisfactory. It was from the Santa Barbara operator, who had been listening in.

He cut into Joe’s waves with a sharp summons for “G. I.”

“Right here,” flashed back Joe eagerly, thinking that it might be Ding-dong at last. He was soon undeceived.

“This is station O at Santa Barbara talking,” came through the air to the Motor Rangers’ aerials. “You been trying to get young Bell’s station?”

“Yes, what’s the trouble?” inquired Joe.

“I don’t know exactly, but something was the matter with his wave lengths this morning. He was trying to get you, but couldn’t succeed. But he reached me all right and left a message for you fellows.”

“A message? What is it?” flashed back Joe.

“Here it is,—all ready?”

“Go ahead.”

“Dear Nat and Joe. Don’t worry. I have left Santa Barbara on a hot clew to you know who. I expect to recover everything before night.—Ding-dong.”

“We-el, what do you know about that?” gasped Nat, as Joe said “Good-bye” and cut off.

“That kid is off along the trail of trouble again as sure as you are a foot high,” exclaimed Joe. “Now what are we going to do? Where do you suppose he’s gone?”

“Looks a good deal as if he might have found out something about Minory, doesn’t it, and is anxious to keep all the credit of recovering the plans and the models to himself,” commented Nat.

“But in that case he may run into grave danger,” protested Joe excitedly. “That fellow wouldn’t stop at a trifle. What are we going to do about it, Nat?”

“There’s only one thing to be done now,” declared Nat.

“And that is?”

“Raise Santa Barbara, notify the authorities of the place where we suspect Minory may be found, and let them take after him. If Ding-dong has gone to the right place, they may arrive in time to get him out of trouble. If he’s gone somewhere else, why, I don’t see that there’s anything we can do but hope for the best.”

“That’s about all,” said Joe, as he turned to his instruments. At that moment the door was flung open and in came Nate with a burst of rain and wind at his back.

“That feller off the point is no fisherman,” he declared positively. “I think that it’s up to us to keep our weather eyes open to-night.”

“For what?” asked Joe, as he tapped out the Santa Barbara call.

“For trouble,” was the brief reply. “Got any shootin’ irons on the island?”

“Only an old revolver,” said Nat. “We’ve never needed them.”

“S’pose you’ve heard about the cowpuncher,” said Nate dryly. “He had never needed a revolver for forty years, but when he did need it, he needed it durn bad!”

“And you think that is our position?” asked Nat.

“I ain’t saying,” was the response; “but that schooner’s got other business off this island than riding out this ten-cent blow.”