only a few days before on the hunted Kronprinzessin.
“Well, Jack, old fellow,” observed Raynor, as Jack leaned back after sending a few routine messages of farewell and business of the ship, “off again on our travels.”
“Yes, and this time, thank goodness, we’re under Uncle Sam’s flag, and that means a whole lot in these days.”
“It does, indeed,” agreed the other fervently, “but have you any idea what port we are bound for?”
“Not as yet. We are to get instructions by wireless, either from the New York or London offices.”
“This a queer job we’ve embarked on, Jack,” resumed Raynor, after a pause in which Jack had “picked up” Nantucket and exchanged greetings.
“It is indeed. I only hope we can carry it through successfully. At any rate, it will give us an opportunity to see something of the war for ourselves.”
“It’s a great chance, but as to finding Tom Jukes, I must say I agree with you that a needle in a hay stack isn’t one, two, three with it.”
A heavily built man, dark bearded and mustached, entered the wireless cabin. He had a despatch ready written in his hand.
“Send this as soon as possible, please,” he said, handing it to Jack.
As his eyes met those of the young wireless man he gave a perceptible start which, however, was unnoticed by either of the boys. Raynor was paying no particular attention to the matter in hand and Jack was knitting his brows over the despatch. It was in code, to an address in New York and was signed Martin Johnson.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson,” said Jack, “but we can’t handle this message.”
“Can’t? Why not?” demanded the passenger indignantly.
“Because it is in code.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“While the war lasts we have instructions not to handle code messages or any despatches that are not expressed in English that is perfectly plain.”
“That’s preposterous,” sputtered the passenger angrily. “This is a message on a business matter I tell you.”
“If you’ll write it out in English, I’ll transmit it,” said Jack; “that’s what I’m here for.”
The man suddenly leaped forward. He thrust a hand in his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills.
“Can I speak to you confidentially?” he asked, turning his eyes on Raynor.
“Anything you’ve got to say you can say before my friend,” said Jack.
“Then, see here – there’s a hundred dollars in that roll,” as he threw it on the desk, “forget that code rule a while and it’s yours.”
“Look here, Mr. Johnson,” said Jack coldly, “I’ve already told you what my orders are. As for your money, if it was a million it would be just the same to me.”
“Bah! You are a fool,” snapped the other, angrily snatching up the money and flinging out of the cabin, crumpling the code message in his hand.
“That infernal boy again,” he muttered, as he gained the deck outside. “This only makes another score I have to settle with him. These Americans, they are all fools. Well, Von Gottberg in New York will have to go without information, that’s all, if I can’t find some way of getting at the wireless.”
“Say, Jack,” asked Raynor, as the bearded man left the cabin, “did that fellow remind you of anybody?”
“Who, Johnson?” asked Jack idly. “Why yes, now that you come to mention it, there was something familiar about his voice and his eyes, but for the life of me I couldn’t place him.”
“Nor I, and yet I’ve a strong feeling that we’ve met him somewhere before.”
“Johnsons are as thick as blackberries,” commented Jack.
“Yes, but I don’t connect that name with this man. It was some other name altogether. Oh, well, what’s the use of trying to recall it – anyhow, Mr. Johnson, whoever he is, hasn’t got a very amiable temper. I thought he was going to swell up and bust when you refused that message.”
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