Poor Roy! No matter how hard he tried, it seemed, the captain would still be dissatisfied with him. To Roy the captain’s harsh remark seemed the very essence of injustice. He did not desire praise. He neither expected nor wished any special consideration. But he did desire just recognition of his services. If the captain was truthful in telling Mr. Adams that the capture of the thieves had saved him, Captain Lansford, from trouble, then, it seemed to Roy, the captain should have thanked him instead of reprimanding him. Bitter, indeed, were Roy’s thoughts.

Again it was the kind-hearted purser who helped Roy in his difficulty. Like everybody else on board, Mr. Robbins was aroused by the hubbub. He threw on some clothes and hurried to the deck to see what was wrong. There he speedily learned about the capture of the thieves; and Sam, the steward, told him of Roy’s part in the affair and what the captain had said to Roy.

The purser waited to hear no more. In another minute he was in the wireless house. “I hear you have done a fine piece of work, Roy,” he said. “I congratulate you. Everybody is talking about it.”

There was no joy in the face Roy turned to his friend. “Everybody but the captain, perhaps,” he sighed. “He gave me thunder again. Is there anything that would satisfy him? I’ve worked my head nearly off on this trip and he will barely speak to me. Now I have helped prevent a theft and if what the captain says is true, I have helped keep him out of difficulty. And what do I get for it? A reprimand before the entire crew.”

“How’s that?” demanded the purser, as though it were news to him. “Tell me what happened.”

After Roy had related the entire incident in detail, the purser said sympathetically, “That does seem rough. But perhaps you don’t fully understand the captain’s position, Roy. You see, he’s responsible for any smuggling that goes on in this ship. If smuggling is done and the revenue officers discover it, the captain may be punished. Naturally, when he is aboard and smugglers are discovered at work, he wants to know about it. You wouldn’t want a sailor from the forecastle sending out important despatches for you, particularly if you were aboard, would you?”

“You bet I wouldn’t,” promptly answered Roy. “It might get me into a heap of trouble with the Marconi people.”

“Well, that’s exactly the way the captain saw the matter. What was going on below might have gotten him into no end of trouble with the government. He was here to handle the matter himself. Instead of calling him, a boy with no experience attempts to manage the affair. Do you see how it appeared to the captain?”

“I do,” said Roy soberly, “and I don’t blame him. But he might at least have asked why I didn’t call him. There were reasons why I couldn’t.”

“Ah! That is another matter, Roy. That is where the captain was too hasty. It is always dangerous to jump at conclusions. But you must remember that the captain’s whole training has been to act and act quick. When things go wrong on a ship or the craft is in danger, the captain has to do something and do it quick. When you are half a thousand miles from land and your ship is in danger of going to the bottom, you can’t sit around and think or hold courts of inquiry, Roy. You have to do something instantly. The captain has been doing that for thirty years and it has become a habit. Just wait until we get in some tight pinch. You’ll be so glad we have a captain aboard who knows what to do and how to do it quick that you’ll forgive all the overhasty things he does in times of quiet.”

“I’m glad you told me all this,” said Roy. “I still think the captain was unjust, but I feel differently about the matter. And I’ll feel more so if they prove to be smugglers instead of plain thieves.”

“I don’t believe there’s any doubt about their being smugglers. Let’s go down and see what the police have discovered.”

They descended to the deck. The ship’s lights had been turned on and the stolen goods hoisted aboard. They were small bales of hemp. A policeman was breaking one of them open. Roy remembered that they had been brought aboard with the very first of the cargo and trucked to the forward part of the ship. Evidently they had immediately been secreted by the four smugglers who had joined the crew and were at work in the hold. When the policeman had torn away a part of the hemp, out rolled a four-gallon can filled with liquid. The screw-cap was cautiously removed and the policeman gingerly sniffed the contents. Then a smile spread over his face.

“It’s the real stuff, Rounds,” he said, passing the can to the waiting roundsman.

The roundsman sampled the liquor. “The very same,” he replied, “and worth a good many dollars a gallon. If the twenty-four bales each contain four gallons, we’ve captured two good hogsheads of whiskey for Uncle Sam, and saved him a nice little sum of revenue. We’ll just take the booze along with the prisoners, Captain Lansford.”

“You are welcome to both,” said the captain. “We’ll make sure there is no more of the stuff aboard. If we find any, I’ll let you know. Meantime, I’m obliged to you for catching these fellows.”

“You’d better thank your wireless man, Captain. They’d have got away with the stuff sure, if it hadn’t been for him. And we’d have missed them again.” Then, turning to Roy, the roundsman thanked him warmly. The whiskey and the prisoners were put into the captured motor-boat, and towing their rowboat behind them, the police went chugging back to Harbor A.

During the days that the Lycoming lay in her dock, Roy spent many an hour in sober thought. He had had a taste of life afloat now, and more than ever he felt sure that he wanted to be a wireless man. He wanted to succeed. He wanted to reach the very top in his chosen calling. No boy was ever more ambitious, ever more willing to work hard. Indeed, the unusual quality in Roy, the thing that distinguished him from most lads of his age, was the fact that he had early grasped the idea that the road to success is named work.

Always Roy had done things with a will. When he played, he played hard. When he studied, he studied hard. And after he had become interested in radio communication, he had striven hard to perfect himself as an operator. He understood his instruments perfectly. He could make new parts or entire new instruments, if given the materials. He could improvise a wireless outfit out of next to nothing. He could read messages as fast as any human hand could send them, and he could himself transmit with unusual speed. In short, despite his youth, Roy was an unusually skilful wireless man.

But he lacked what most boys lack. He lacked experience of life and the sane judgment that should go with experience. He lacked perspective. He was impatient. He could not always see matters in their true relationship.

It was so now as he meditated concerning his own situation. He forgot that he had been aboard the Lycoming hardly a month. He did not realize that the captain really knew nothing concerning his training and ability. He did not understand that before a man like Captain Lansford could place confidence in a subordinate, that subordinate would have to prove his entire trustworthiness. And Roy had as yet had no real test. His work had so far been all fair-weather work.

But the thing that Roy understood least of all was the captain’s actual attitude toward him. He thought that the captain disliked him, that he felt spiteful toward him, that he was purposely trying to humiliate him. Had Roy understood the actual situation he might have felt even worse. That was, that Captain Lansford was hardly conscious that Roy was a member of his crew. He was for some reason prejudiced against wireless, and he had for so many years navigated his ship without the help of wireless that he gave no more heed to the innovation than he would to a new plank laid on the deck. Roy’s messages concerning the weather he took lightly. He had a barometer of his own that for thirty years had told him all he needed to know about the weather. Roy’s news-letters were more or less diverting. But the captain had gone without the day’s news for so many years that he had no hunger for it, as the constant newspaper reader has. It mattered little to him whether he ever saw a paper or not.

But it did matter about the safety and punctuality of his ship. No mariner alive was prouder of his record, more jealous of his reputation, or more determined to keep up his good work. Every minute the captain had the welfare of his ship in mind. Only those who had proved their ability did he trust. He wanted them to prove it under his own tutelage, and his was a stern way of training recruits.

Thus it was that while Roy was fretting his heart out at what he considered the captain’s dislike of him and injustice toward him, the captain was hardly giving Roy a thought. He was tolerating him as he tolerated the wireless aerial swinging aloft; both had been ordered by the owners.

So Roy’s situation was far from being the hopeless one he considered it. The dropping of water will wear away even the hardest stone. Continued good service was certain to make an impression on even Captain Lansford’s stern nature. And real service to the ship could not fail to impress the captain deeply, since his ship’s welfare was the captain’s one passion.

Could Roy have realized all this it would have saved him many a heartburn. He did understand, however, that the way to make good in any job was through efficient service. So the captain’s course, although it hurt and angered Roy, really spurred him to greater efforts. Some boys, in a similar situation, would have become careless and sullen. Roy maintained his courteous, cheery manner and worked harder than ever. He was on his mettle and was determined that he would force recognition from his captain. And that was the very best attitude he could have taken.

Although it is a long lane that has no turning, it seemed to Roy that he was an extremely long time in reaching the bend in his particular path. Things went on in the same old, uneventful way. He took messages and sent them. He faithfully caught the weather-reports, the storm signals, and the night’s news. And all these made about as much impression on Captain Lansford as did the regular turning of one of the piston-rods in the engine room. Roy saw that if he were going to make a dent in Captain Lansford’s consciousness, he would have to do something out of the ordinary routine. Think as he might, no opportunity seemed to present itself. That made Roy keener than ever; and he soon reached the point where he spent almost as much time considering the welfare of the ship as the captain did. Everywhere and always he was asking himself the question, “What can I do to help run the ship?”

The period of unloading and loading passed, and the Lycoming started south again, but still Roy’s opportunity did not come. He chafed under the placid routine of his life as a captured tiger chafes in its cage.

The turn in the lane was near at hand, however, or at least there was a slight bend directly ahead. That turn came in the form of a fog.

Bright skies and a summer sun looked down upon the Lycoming as she bade farewell to New York and sailed through the Narrows toward the open sea. Twenty-four hours later she was buried in a fog-bank. A great, gray, swirling mass of mist came drifting up from the south, cutting off the vision as effectually as a curtain hides a stage. In no time everything was wet and clammy. Rails, rigging, window-sills,—everything was adrip with condensed moisture. A raw, damp quality pervaded the atmosphere. The barometer was falling and the wind rising. To make matters worse, it began to rain. At first the rain was hardly more than a heavy mist. Then it fell in gentle drops. As the wind rose the rain poured downward in torrents, driving in sheets before the fitful blasts of the gale. It searched out every crack and crevice, and came driving under doors and oozing in under tightly closed window-sashes.

The little wireless house, on the very top of the ship, caught the full force of wind and rain. Water came under Roy’s door in such a stream that he had to mop it up with a rag. At first he felt little concern. The sea had not yet risen, and the ship was not rolling much, though occasionally it seemed to stagger before a great gust of wind. Having gone through a pretty fair gale, Roy saw by comparison that this storm, at least as yet, was nothing to feel disturbed about.

But when he looked out of his window, and particularly when he opened his door a moment later, he felt instant concern. The ship was literally swallowed up, buried in the densest bank of fog Roy had ever known. He could not see in any direction. He could hardly make out the ship’s nose with distinctness. Under the buffeting of the wind the steamer creaked and groaned. Windows rattled. Everything that was not lashed fast thumped and pounded. The fitful blasts whistled in the rigging and shrieked and howled about the little wireless house, and the roar of the storm almost drowned the sound of the fog-horn. If he could not hear the deep bellow of the Lycoming’s great fog-horn, he asked himself, how could those on other ships hear it? Instantly Roy was alarmed.

Long ago, he knew well enough, the captain had jumped into oilskins and boots and sou’-wester and joined Mr. Young on the bridge. Into Roy’s mind came a picture of the captain at his post, pacing from side to side of the bridge, standing rigid, like a pointing setter, as he listened with cupped hand to his ear, now on the port side, now on the starboard, and all the while seeking to pierce with his eagle eyes that vast, impenetrable, treacherous mass of fog. In his anxiety Roy pulled on his raincoat and stepped to the deck to listen. He was blinded by the torrent of rain and almost bowled over by the blasts of wind. He clung to the hand-rail and listened, peering intently into the mist. He saw nothing but fog and heard only the hoarse shriek of the ship’s whistle and the roar of the wind. He turned back and shut the door. Every moment he felt more fearful, for he knew there must be ships in the vicinity. And now he began to feel grateful that Captain Lansford was on the bridge. Every time he thought of that tall, undaunted figure pacing the bridge, Roy felt safer.

A great desire to help in the battle with the elements came to Roy. But what could he do? He might call other ships and get replies, but how would that help? They could not locate the Lycoming any more than he could locate them. Besides, he didn’t know what ships to call, what vessels were in his vicinity.

“But I can find out,” muttered Roy. “Maybe the captain would like to know.”

When Roy became the Lycoming’s wireless man, he subscribed for the New York Herald. Daily the paper came to the office on the pier, where Roy got it. When he returned from his first voyage, he secured the back numbers that had come during his absence. And from every Issue since he became a subscriber, Roy had clipped the shipping news and carefully filed it away. He had had a vague notion that some day these clippings might be useful. Already the time had come, for his clippings contained very complete shipping news from all parts of the world. They would tell him what ships were on the sea in his vicinity.

Roy wondered what his vicinity was. He had been busy and had not followed the progress of the ship. But he knew she had been running at her usual speed, which was about fifteen knots an hour. They had been at sea but a trifle more than twenty-four hours. A little figuring told Roy that the Lycoming was perhaps 425 miles from New York. Taking a chart from his book rack and a ruler, he calculated the distance according to the scale and made a dot on the map. The Lycoming was off Cape Hatteras, the worst weather-breeder on our coast and the graveyard of so many noble ships!

Then Roy did a little more figuring. He knew the Lycoming was four days from Galveston. At the same rate of speed, he found by measuring his map, the Lycoming was perhaps three and a half days from New Orleans, a little less from Mobile, and not three days from Tampa. Key West was a few hours more than two days distant, and Jacksonville not much more than a day. Savannah, Charleston, and Wilmington were within a day’s sail. Northern Cuba was only a trifle more than two days distant, and various West Indian ports were but a few hours further, while the Bahamas were some hours nearer. From some or all of these ports and a few others besides, ships might have sailed in time to bring them close to the Lycoming now. Roy didn’t know the speed of any of the ships that ply along the coast excepting the Lycoming’s, but the captain would know. From his Herald clippings Roy could learn what ships were on the ocean.

Roy got out his clippings and jotted down the names of coastwise ships sailing from various ports in recent days. He believed most of them would average about the same speed as the Lycoming. Calculating on that basis, he found that El Alba from Galveston, the Antilla from Cuba, the Algonquin from San Domingo, the City of Columbus from Savannah, the Alabama from Port Arthur, and the Merrimack from Jacksonville, all bound north, were now due in the neighborhood of Hatteras, while the Matinicock, bound from Baltimore to Tampico, and the Brunswick, south-bound from Newport News, must be close ahead in the fog. Now he had something to go on.

Taking down his signal book, Roy copied the call signals of each of these vessels. Then he adjusted his receivers, threw over his switch and began to call.

“KKL—KKL—KKL de WNA,” flashed Roy’s signal.

Again and again he repeated the call, but no answer greeted his ear. Either El Alba was not within hearing distance or else her wireless man was not at his post.

Roy tried for the Antilla. “KWD—KWD—KWD de WNA,” he rapped out. Then amid the roar of the storm he waited for an answer. “KWD—KWD—KWD de WNA,” repeated Roy after an interval. And this time, very faintly, he got a reply.

“KWD de WNA. Where are you?” called Roy. “Are my signals distinct?”

“WNA de KWD,” came the reply. “We must be about abreast of Cape Fear. Your signals are very weak.”

“We don’t need to worry about the Antilla, then,” said Roy to himself. “Cape Fear must be at least 175 miles south of us.”

Again Roy sent a call flashing from his instrument. “KVG—KVG—KVG de WNA.”

The Algonquin answered promptly. The signals were very faint. “WNA de KVG. What do you want?”

“Where are you?” repeated Roy. “We’re off Hatteras.”

“We touched at Bermuda and left there three hours ago.”

“Good!” muttered Roy. “That’s another one out of the road.”

Again he consulted his list and sent forth a call. “KFA—KFA—KFA de WNA.”

The answer came sharp and clear. “WNA de KFA. Go ahead.”

“Where are you?” asked Roy.

“Lost in the fog,” replied the operator on the City of Columbus. “I don’t know where we are. We ought to be off Hatteras. Where are you?”

“Off Hatteras. Are my signals clear?”

“Very sharp.”

“We must be near each other.”

The Alabama did not answer Roy’s call, and he could get neither of the south-bound ships ahead of the Lycoming. But the Merrimack replied so sharply that she was quite evidently near at hand.

Roy picked up his telephone and called the captain. No answer came. Again and again Roy called. Evidently the telephone was out of order. Roy snatched on his raincoat and cap and rushed through the rain for the bridge. Both the captain and Mr. Young were on duty. Roy thanked his lucky stars that the first officer was there. Going close to him and cupping his hands about his mouth, Roy shouted in the big mate’s ear, “City of Columbus and Merrimack near us. Been talking to both. They’re looking for us.”

The first officer nodded and crossed the bridge to repeat Roy’s report to the captain. Roy waited lest the captain should have an order. The latter merely nodded at the mate and peered into the storm again. Roy went back to the wireless house, clutching a hand-rail and staggering under the wind. He noticed that the ship was moving at half speed.

Again he called the City of Columbus. The reply seemed no sharper than before. But when he signaled the Merrimack, the answer fairly crackled in his ears. Evidently the two boats were much nearer to one another.

Roy’s heart began to pound furiously. Were the two ships about to collide? Was there anything he could do to prevent it? What should he do if they did? Sound the SOS of course and keep sending it until he sank. That was his duty. He set his teeth. “I’ll do it,” he muttered. “But there mustn’t be any collision. We must prevent it. But how?”

Roy’s brow wrinkled. What could he do? “If only I had a direction finder like the one the government gave us during the spy hunt,” he sighed, “I’d locate the Merrimack quick.”

Again he called. “KQM de WNA. How are my signals now?”

“WNA de KQM. Sharper than ever. We must be very close.”

“Are you whistling?” asked Roy.

“Sure. Can’t you hear us? We can hear you.”

Roy laid down his receivers and opened the door. Faintly he heard the booming of the Merrimack’s whistle. Then it came with startling distinctness. A third time it sounded apparently in the far, far distance. From what direction the sound came Roy had not the slightest idea. The fog now muffled, now magnified the sound, which seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere.

An idea flashed into Roy’s head. He leaped back to his operating table.

“KQM de WNA,” he flashed. “Is there any way you can signal me and blow your whistle at the same time?” he asked.

“Yes,” came the answer. “The captain and I will set our watches together and send the two signals simultaneously. I’ll send three V’s. Listen.”

Roy sprang up and opened his door, then leaped back to his operating table. He clamped on his receivers, laid his watch on the table before him, and watched it in breathless expectation.

His heart beat like a trip-hammer. The blood pounded in his brain. His face was flushed with excitement. Somewhere out there in the fog the great steamship was rushing toward the Lycoming. She might be a mile away, she might be three hundred yards. The two might crash before ever he heard the signals he was waiting for. Tense, rigid, yet inwardly aquiver, Roy laid his finger on his key, ready to sound the SOS. Then he listened. For what seemed an age he listened. The wind shrieked and howled. The Lycoming’s whistle boomed. The windows rattled. The rain beat a tattoo on the roof. But no wireless signal greeted Roy’s ears. He could hardly hold himself in his chair. Then it came. “V—V—V,” went the signal. Roy noted the position of the second-hand on his watch and waited breathlessly for the sound of the Merrimack’s whistle.

One second passed—two—three—four—five.

“Mmmmmmmmm!” came the roar of the Merrimack’s whistle.

“Five seconds,” said Roy. “She’s almost a mile away. Thank God.”

He pressed his key. Once more blue sparks leaped in his spark-gap.

“KQM de WNA. Five seconds difference,” he flashed. “You must be about a mile away. Try it again.”

“WNA de KQM,” came back the answer. “Will repeat. Listen.”

Again Roy sat tense, listening for the voice that meant so much. Again time seemed to stand still. The wind roared so loud Roy feared he might not be able to hear the Merrimack’s whistle. The rain was beating on the roof like the crashing of a thousand drums. His own door was banging as the ship swayed and lurched, and the rain drove in in torrents, but Roy dared not close it. All he could do was to stare at his watch and listen, listen, listen. He hardly dared breathe. He was even afraid that the pounding of his heart would drown out the sounds he was straining every sense to catch.

Suddenly something snapped in his ear. It was the Merrimack’s signal, loud as a thunderclap. Roy jumped in his seat, but kept his eyes on his watch.

“One second—two——”

“Boom!” shrieked the Merrimack’s whistle.

“KQM,” flashed Roy with trembling fingers. “Reverse. You’re almost on us.” Then he dropped his receivers and darted into the storm. Fearlessly he raced across the slippery deck.

“Reverse,” he cried, rushing up to the first mate. “The Merrimack is almost on us. A minute ago she was a mile away. Now she’s less than two thousand feet.”

As though to verify Roy’s words, the hoarse bellowing roar of the Merrimack’s whistle rang out deafeningly. The first mate sprang to the indicator and signaled to the engine room, “Reverse—full speed.” The captain leaped for the whistle cord and the Lycoming shrieked her warning. As her propeller reversed, the Lycoming shivered from stem to stern, heeling far over, while the water about her was churned into yeasty foam. She lost headway and began to wallow in the waves. The captain signaled for the engines to stop.

“Mmmmmmmmm!” roared the Lycoming’s whistle as she rolled from side to side.

“Mmmmmmmmm!” came back the awful echo from the Merrimack.

The two ships were almost on top of each other, yet neither was visible to the other.

“Mmmmmmmmm!” “Mmmmmmmmm!” they bellowed at each other.

The captain put his mouth to the first mate’s ear. “Can you make out where she is?” he shouted.

“To starboard, I think, sir.”

“So do I.”

The captain beckoned to Roy. “Tell that ship to stand still while I pass it,” he shouted.

Roy tore back to the wireless house. Water ran from him in streams as he sat down at his table.

“KQM de WNA,” he flashed. “Tell your captain to stand still while we pass.”

“All right—go ahead,” came the reply.

Roy scrambled back to the bridge with the message. The captain turned the handle of the indicator. Slowly the Lycoming gathered headway.

“Mmmmmmmm!” shrieked her whistle.

“Mmmmmmmm!” answered the Merrimack.

And now there could be no mistaking her position. She was to starboard and close at hand. Slowly the Lycoming crept around her, then went nosing her way through the fog again. Once Roy thought he glimpsed the Merrimack but he was not sure. When her whistle was plainly astern, Roy again shot a message to her wireless man.

“Close shave,” he flashed. “Thanks for your help.”

“You saved us from a collision, sure,” came back the answer. “Good-bye and good luck to you.”

A few minutes later the two boats were miles apart.