CHAPTER I—TOM BARNES’ WIRELESS

“What’s that new-fangled thing on the blasted oak, Tom?”

“That, Ben, is a wireless.”

“Oh, you don’t say so!”

“Or, rather the start of one.”

“Say, you aren’t original or ambitious or anything like that, are you?”

The speaker, Ben Dixon, bestowed a look of admiration and interest on the chum he liked best of all in the world, Tom Barnes.

Tom was reckoned a genius in the little community in which he lived. He had the record of “always being up to something.” In the present instance he had been up a tree, it seemed. From “the new-fangled thing” Ben had discovered in passing the familiar landmark, the blasted oak, wires and rods ran up to quite a height, showing that some one had done some climbing.

Ben became instantly absorbed in an inspection of the contrivance before him. He himself had some mechanical talent. His father had been an inventor in a small way, and anything in which Tom had a part always attracted him.

“Tell me about it. What’s that thing up there?” asked Ben, pointing directly at some metal rods attached to the broken-off top of the tree.

“Those are antennae.”

“Looks like an—twenty!” chuckled Ben over his own joke. “There’s a whole network of them, isn’t there?”

“They run down to a relay, Ben, catching the electric waves striking the decoherer, which taps the coherer and disarranges a lot of brass filings by mechanical vibration. That’s the whole essence of the wireless—otherwise it is no different from common telegraphy—a group of parts each for individual service in transmitting or receiving the electric waves.”

“Thank you!” observed Ben drily. “How delightfully plain that all is! You rattle those scientific terms off good and spry, though.”

“So will you, as soon as you do what I’ve been doing,” asserted Tom.

“And what’s that?”

“Getting a glance at the real wireless outfit Mr. Edson is operating down at Sandy Point.”

“I heard of that,” nodded Ben.

“He’s a fine man,” said Tom enthusiastically. “He’s taken all kinds of trouble to post me and explain things I wanted to know. This little side show of mine is just an experiment on a small scale. I don’t expect any grand results. It will work out the principle, though, and when I get to taking messages——”

“What! you don’t mean to say you can do that?”

“Just that, Ben,” declared Tom confidently.

“From where?”

“Well, mostly from Mr. Edson’s station at Sandy Point, and maybe some stray ones that may slip past him.”

“Say!” cried Ben, on fire at once with emulation and optimism, “what’s the matter with me starting a station, too, down at my house? Then we could have all kinds of fun over our line.”

“It isn’t much work nor expense,” said Tom. “You can get an outfit cheap for a home-made apparatus—you need some coarse and fine wire for the main coil, a glass tube, a bell, sounder and a buzzer, some electromagnets——”

“I see,” interrupted Ben with a mock groan, “just a few things picked up anywhere. Oh, yes!”

“You won’t be discouraged once you get interested, Ben,” assured Tom. “We’ll talk about your starting a station later. Just now you can help me quite a bit if you want to.”

“Sure!” returned the enterprising Ben with vim.

“All right; I want to string a coil of new wire I got yesterday,” explained Tom, going around to the other side of the tree. “Why, it’s gone!” he cried.

“What’s gone?” queried Ben.

“The wire. Now, isn’t that a shame!” cried Tom indignantly, fussing around among the grass and bushes. “That coil couldn’t have walked away. Some one must have stolen it.”

“Don’t be too hasty, Tom. Some one passing by may have picked it up. You know the fellows are playing ball over in the meadow just beyond here. Some of them may have cut across and stumbled over your wire.”

“Couldn’t they see that I was putting up a station here?” demanded Tom with asperity.

“Station?” repeated Ben with a jolly laugh. “See here, old fellow, you forget that we scientific numbskulls wouldn’t know your contrivance here from a clothes dryer.”

“Well, come on, anyway. I’ve got to find that wire,” said Tom with determination.

In the distance they could hear the shouts of boys at play, and passing through some brushwood they came to the edge of the open meadow lining the river.

Half a dozen boys were engaged in various pastimes. Two of them playing at catch greeted Tom with enthusiasm.

There was no boy at Rockley Cove more popular than Tom Barnes. His father had farmed it, as the saying goes, at the edge of the little village for over a quarter of a century. While Mr. Barnes was not exactly a wealthy man he made a good living, and Tom dressed pretty well, and was kept at school right along. Now it was vacation time, and outside of a few chores about the house morning and evening Tom’s time was his own.

The result was that usually Tom had abundant leisure for sports. The welcome with which his advent was hailed therefore, was quite natural.

“I say, Tom,” suddenly spoke Ben, seizing the arm of his companion in some excitement, “there’s Mart Walters.”

“Ah, he’s here, is he?” exclaimed Tom, and started rapidly across the meadow to where a crowd of boys were grouped about a diving plank running out over the stream. “I’m bothered about that missing coil, but I guess I can take time to attend to Walters.”

The boy he alluded to was talking to several companions as Tom and Ben came up. His back was to the newcomers and he did not see them approach. Mart Walters was a fop and a braggart. Tom noticed that he was arrayed in his best, and his first overheard words announced that he was bragging as usual.

Mart was explaining to a credulous audience some of the wonderful feats in diving and swimming he had engaged in during a recent stay in Boston. With a good deal of boastful pride he alluded to a friend, Bert Aldrich, whose father was a part owner of a big city natatorium. Tom interrupted his bombast unceremoniously by suddenly appearing directly in front of the boaster.

“Hello, Mart Walters,” he hailed in a sort of aggressive way.

“Hello yourself,” retorted Mart, with a slight uneasiness of manner.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Tom bluntly.

“Have?”

“Yes, ever since I heard some criticisms of yours yesterday on my bungling swimming.”

“Oh, I didn’t say much,” declared Mart evasively.

“You said enough to make the crowd believe you could beat me all hollow at diving.”

“Well,” flustered Mart desperately, “I can.”

“Want to prove that?” challenged Tom sharply.

“Some time.”

“Why not now? We’re all here and the water is fine. We’ll make it a dash for the half-mile fence and return, under water test, somersaults and diving.”

Mart had begun to retreat. He flushed and stammered. Finally he blurted out:

“I’m due now at Morgan’s with a message from my folks.”

“You haven’t seemed in a hurry,” suggested Ben.

“Well, I am now.”

“Yes, might muss your collar if you got wet!” sneered a fellow in the crowd.

“All right,” said Tom, “when will you be back?”

“Can’t say,” declared Mart. “You see, I don’t know how long I may be.”

He started off, flushed and sheep-faced under the critical gaze of the crowd. As he did so Tom noticed that he had something in his hand.

“Here!” he cried, “where did you get that?”

Tom had discovered his missing coil of wire. His hand seized it. Mart’s did not let go. The latter gave a jerk, Tom a twist.

“That’s mine,” Tom said simply. “You took it from where I was stringing up my wireless.”

“I found it,” shouted Mart, thoroughly infuriated in being crossed in any of his plans. “It was kicking around loose. I’ll have it too—take that!”

He came at Tom so suddenly that the latter, unprepared for the attack, went swinging to the ground under a dizzying blow.

It looked as if Mart was about to follow up the assault with a kick. Tom offset that peril with a dextrous maneuvre.

Seated flat, he spun about like a top. His feet met the ankles of the onrushing Mart.

Mart stumbled, tripped and slipped. He tried to catch himself, lost his balance, fell backward, and the next instant went headlong into the water with a resounding splash.

CHAPTER II—STATION Z

A yell of derisive delight went up from the smaller youths of the crowd as Mart Walters went toppling into the water. Mart did not have a real friend in Rockley Cove, and the little fellows Welcomed an opportunity for showing their dislike.

Tom, however, promptly on his feet was making for the spot where Mart was puffing and splashing about, when two of his friends in bathing attire anticipated his helpful action, reached Mart, and led him, blinded and dripping, onto dry land.

Mart was a sight. All the starch was taken out of him, and out of his clothes. He did not linger to renew the conflict. He only shook his fist at Tom with the half Whimpered words:

“I’ll fix you, Tom Barnes, see if I don’t! This will be a sorry day for you.”

“Who started it?” demanded Tom bluntly.

“I’ll get even with you for this treatment,” threatened Mart direfully, sneaking off.

“You’ve made an enemy for life of that fellow, Tom,” declared Ben.

“Well, he never was very friendly towards me,” responded Tom. “Where’s the wire? I’ve got it,” and he picked it up from the ground where it had dropped. “I’m sorry this thing occurred, but he brought it on himself. Come on, Ben.”

“You’re going to stay and have some fun, aren’t you, Tom?” inquired one of the swimmers.

“Can’t, boys—that is, just now. I’ve got something to attend to. See you again.”

Tom and Ben had not proceeded fifty feet, however, when a hurried call halted them. Tom’s younger brother came running towards them.

“Oh, Tom!” he hailed breathlessly, “I’ve run all the way from the house. I’ve got a message for you.”

“What is it, Ted?”

“Mr. Edson was passing the house and told me to find you and ask you to come down to the tower as soon as you could.”

“All right, Ted,” replied Tom. “I wonder what’s up?”

“Why?” questioned Ben.

“I saw Mr. Edson early this morning down at the Point, and thought I’d got him to talk himself out for a week to come asking him so many questions about the wireless.”

“Are you going to drop rigging out your plant at the old oak till you see him?”

“We’ll have to. It may be something important Mr. Edson wants to see me about. You come too, Ben.”

“Had I better?”

“You want to, don’t you?”

“Well, I guess!” replied Ben with undisguised fervor. “I’ve envied the way he’s posting you in this wireless ever since I first saw his outfit.”

The boys pursued their way to Sandy Point, passing the old blasted oak. Here Tom took pains to stow the coil of wire safely in a tree. Resuming their walk they neared Sandy Point twenty minutes later.

The Point was a high but level stretch of shore with one or two small houses in its vicinity. It was really a part of Rockley Cove, but the center of the village was half a mile inland.

A high metal framework designated the Point, and could be seen from quite a distance. This, however, was no recent construction nor a beacon point, nor originally erected for its present use as a wireless station.

It had served as a windmill for a farmer who once operated an eighty-acre tract of land. One night his house and barns burned down. For years the spot was abandoned. Recently, however, the Mr. Edson Tom had alluded to had come to Rockley Cove and established “Station Z” at the old windmill.

He had built a room or tower as he called it midway up the windmill structure. This was reached through a trap door by a fixed iron ladder. The height and open construction of the windmill enabled the setting of upper wireless paraphernalia in a fine way, and the whole layout was found especially serviceable in carrying out Mr. Edson’s ideas.

The operator was at the window of the little operating room he had built, and waved a cheery welcome to his two young friends. Tom and Ben were up the ladder speedily and through the trap door.

“Did you send for me, Mr. Edson?” inquired Tom.

“Yes, Tom,” replied the operator, “and I’m glad you came so promptly. I’ve got to leave Rockley Cove on short notice.”

“Oh, Mr. Edson, I am very sorry for that!” declared Tom.

“I regret it too, especially so far as you are concerned,” admitted Mr. Edson.

“I was getting on finely,” said Tom in a disappointed tone.

“No reason why you shouldn’t continue,” declared the operator encouragingly. “You have been strictly business all along, Tom. I want to commend you for it, and I have sent for you to make you a business proposition.”

“A proposition?” repeated Tom wonderingly.

“Yes. You have got so that there is very little about the outfit here that you do not understand. The transmitting and receiving end of it is old history to you. In fact I am going to leave you here in entire charge of the station.”

“Oh, Mr. Edson!” exclaimed Tom, “I am afraid you rate me too highly.”

“Not at all. You have got sense, patience, and you want to learn. As you know, my starting the station here was a private enterprise, but it was no idle fad. I expected to work something practicable and profitable out of it. You can carry on the work.”

“Why are you giving it up, sir, if I may ask?”

“I received a letter only an hour since, with an unexpected offer of a very fine position with one of the operating wireless companies in Canada. They expect me at a conference in New York City Friday, and I do not doubt that I shall close an engagement with them. As I have told you, I have very little capital. In fact, about all my surplus has been invested in the station here.”

Ben was looking around the place with his usual devouring glance. Tom felt that some important disclosure was about to be made and was duly impressed.

“There is a good chance for a live young fellow in a business that can send a message hundreds of miles in a few seconds,” continued Mr. Edson. “The business is now only in its infancy, and those who get in first have the best chance. The only hope here of the international circuit is to make a killing.”

“What do you mean by a killing, Mr. Edson?” inquired the big-eyed, interested Ben.

“Catching a stray message and making a home shot with it. The fellow who saved an ocean liner last week by sending help quick, just when needed, got more pay in one hour than many people earn in a lifetime. Now then, Tom, as to my proposition.”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Tom, eagerly.

“I want you to buy me out.”

“To buy you out?” repeated Tom slowly and in a puzzled way.

“That’s it.”

“You mean with money?” put in the ever-attentive Ben.

“It’s got to be money, I am obliged to say,” replied Mr. Edson. “I shall need all the ready cash I can get hold of in taking my new position, for I have a lot of debts to clean up. Between you and me, Tom, I can sell the outfit here to certain people, but it would throw you out. Of course, I don’t expect you, a boy to have any great amount of money to invest, but I had an idea that some of your relatives or friends might help you.”

Tom was silent, deeply thoughtful for a minute or two. His eyes wandered wistfully over the apparatus that so fascinated him. Then, very timorously, he asked:

“How much would it take, Mr. Edson?”

“One hundred dollars to you, Tom,” said Mr. Edson.

Ben squirmed. Tom’s voice was quite tremulous as he inquired:

“How soon would you have to have the money?”

“By next Tuesday.”

“Will you give me till then to—to try?” asked Tom.

“Surely. I hope you can make it, Tom. I like you very much. You are the right sort, and I think you should be encouraged in your interest in the wireless. I’ll show you just what the equipment here is.”

Ben voted the hour that followed the most interesting of his life. For the first time in his career he began to get a faint conception of spark lengths, spark voltage, condensers, circuits, vibrators, grounds, concentric radiations, wire cores and armatures. He had been dabbling for over a week with both Morse and the Continental alphabets, and when Tom mentioned the possibility of establishing a sub-station at the Dixon home instead of at the old blasted oak, Mr. Edson was quite encouraging, and offered to contribute some of the equipment necessary to carry out the idea.

The expert operator engrossed the attention of the boys. It was a ramble in a field of rare delight as they passed from one part of the wireless mechanism to another.

“Now then, sit down, boys, for a few minutes,” said Mr. Edson at length. “I don’t want you to buy a pig in a poke. There are a couple of attachments that go with the station, and you should know about them.”

“Attachments?” repeated Ben.

“What are they, Mr. Edson?” inquired Tom with curiosity.

“Spooks,” was the ominous reply.

CHAPTER III—“SPOOKS!”

“Spooks?” repeated Tom, with a stare of wonder.

“Spooks,” echoed Ben, edging a trifle away from the open trap door.

“Call it that,” said Mr. Edson, with a quiet smile. “Perhaps I had better say—mysterious happenings.”

“What may they be, Mr. Edson?” inquired Ben, always interested in any sensational disclosures.

“Well, first—let me see,” and the speaker reached over for a slip of documents held with others in a paper clip on the table; “yes, here it is—‘Donner.’”

“Who’s he?” inquired Tom, puzzled.

“Say rather what is he?” corrected Mr. Edson. “Frankly, I don’t know.”

“It’s a name,” observed Ben; “a man’s name, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know that,” responded Mr. Edson.

“Neither do the other fellows on the circuit. Perhaps I’d better explain, though, so when this Donner comes along you will be prepared for him.”

“Yes, you have excited our curiosity and we’ll be on the lookout,” said Tom.

“Well, for nearly three weeks, at odd and unexpected times, with no sense or reason to it, no call or ‘sine,’ abruptly and mysteriously zip! the wires have gone, and in floats a jumbled, erratic message.”

“As how?” propounded Ben.

“‘Donner.’ That always, first. It may be an explanation, it may be a name, it may mean nothing, but all the same splutter—splutter! on she comes. At first it was spelled out slowly, lamely, sometimes wrong, and then corrected as if an amateur beginner was at the other end of the line.”

“And that was all—‘Donner’” questioned Ben, aggravatingly consumed with curiosity.

“Not after a few days. Then ‘Donner’ began to add something of a message. That, too, was a jumble, wrong dots and dashes and all that. Finally, though, this queer crank of a sender began to say something about a boy.”

“A boy?” murmured the engrossed Ben.

“It looked as if he was trying to describe some one. However, as I say, his sending was so faulty that not much could be made out of it. It got clearer, but no more coherent and enlightening. I tried to trace the sender. So did others on the circuit. I got in touch with Seagrove.”

“What did they say? Mr. Edson?” asked Tom.

“They confessed themselves fully as much puzzled as I was. The last three or four days ‘Donner’ has gotten into action trying to tell something about money. First it was a hundred dollars, then two hundred, then five, and about an hour since the same old string of jangled talk came in over the receiver: ‘Donner boy—a thousand dollars.’”

“How strange,” commented Tom.

“Oh, you’ll get some of it,” declared Mr. Edson. “Early in the morning about daylight, always at noon, sometimes just about dusk, the message comes through the air.”

“How do you explain it?” submitted Tom.