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The Motor Rangers' Wireless Station
CHAPTER I.
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.”
“I ter-told you there’d be ser-ser-something coming over the a-a-a-a-aerials before long,” sputtered Ding-dong Bell triumphantly, athrill with excitement.
“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.
Ding-dong had become inoculated with the wireless fever as a result of the trip east which the Motor Rangers had taken following their stirring adventures in the Bolivian Andes in Professor Grigg’s air-ship – which experiences were related in the fourth volume of this series, The Motor Rangers’ Cloud Cruiser. On their return to California – where all three boys lived, in the coast resort of Santa Barbara – nothing would suit Ding-dong but that they take a vacation on Goat Island and set up a wireless plant for experimental purposes.
“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 they were entitled to at least a short period of inactivity, and Ding-dong’s idea was hailed as a good one. Goat Island, a rugged, isolated spot of land shaped like a splash of gravy on a plate, was selected as an ideal camping place. The wireless appliances, shipped from San Francisco, were conveyed to the island on board the Rangers’ sturdy cabin cruiser Nomad, and three busy, happy weeks had been devoted to putting it in working order. Since the day that it had been declared “O. K.” by Ding-dong, the lads had been crazy for the “wireless alarm” to ring in, and when it failed to do so Ding-dong came in for a lot of good-natured joshing.
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 from Lower California, where Nat by accident had located his mine, the chums took an eventful trip through the Sierras. What befell them there, and how they combated unscrupulous enemies and had lots of jolly fun, was all set forth in the second volume devoted to their doings, The Motor Rangers Through the Sierras. Some sapphires found by them on this trip led to a strange series of incidents and adventures attendant on their efforts to restore them to their rightful owner. The precious stones were stolen, recovered, and lost again, only to be delivered safely at last. These exciting times, passed by the lads on their cruiser, the Nomad, which took them half across the Pacific, were described in the third volume of the young rangers’ doings, The Motor Rangers on Blue Water. Their voyage in Professor Grigg’s wonderful air-ship, the Discoverer, has been already referred to. With this necessarily brief introduction to the young campers, let us return to Goat Island.
Directly Ding-dong reached the hut housing the apparatus, he flung himself down before the instruments and hastily jammed the head-piece, with its double “watch-case” receivers, over his ears. He picked up a pencil and placing it conveniently above a pad of paper that was always kept affixed to the table holding the sending and receiving appliances, he began to send a storm of dots and dashes winging out in reply to the wireless impulse that had set the gong sounding.
“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.
Against his ears came a tiny pattering so faint as to be hardly distinguishable. Yet the boy knew that the instruments must be “in tune,” or nearly so, with whatever station was sending wireless waves through space, else the “alarm” would not have been sprung.
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.
“Thirty miles off where?” whanged out Ding-dong’s key, while he grumbled at the indefiniteness of the operator on the steamer.
“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 urgent. A life, even, might be at stake. Each lad felt that a responsibility had been suddenly laid at their door that they could not afford to shirk.
“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;
