“It can’t come any too quick for me!” declared Mr. Damon. “Bless my door knob, but my wife must be worrying about my absence!”
“What message for help will you send?” Captain Mentor wanted to know.
“I am going to use the old call for aid,” was the reply of the young inventor. “I shall flash into space the three letters ‘C.Q.D.’ They stand for ‘Come Quick—Danger.’ A new code call has been instituted for them, but I am going to rely on the old one, as, in this part of the world, the new one may not be so well understood. Then I will follow that by giving our position in the ocean, as nearly as Captain Mentor can figure it out. I will repeat this call at intervals until we get help—”
“Or until the island sinks,” added the scientist, grimly.
“Here! Don’t mention that any more,” ordered Mr. Hosbrook. “It’s getting on my nerves! We may be rescued before that awful calamity overtakes us.”
“I don’t believe so,” was Mr. Parker’s reply, and he actually seemed to derive pleasure from his gloomy prophecy.
“It’s lucky you understand wireless telegraphy, Tom Swift,” said Mr. Nestor admiringly, and the other joined in praising the young inventor, until, blushing, he hurried off to make some adjustments to his apparatus.
“Can you compute our longitude and latitude, Captain Mentor,” asked the millionaire yacht owner.
“I think so,” was the reply. “Not very accurately, of course, for all my papers and instruments went down in the Resolute. But near enough for the purpose, I fancy. I’ll get right to work at it, and let Mr. Swift have it.”
“I wish you would. The sooner we begin calling for help the better. I never expected to be in such a predicament as this, but it is wonderful how that young fellow worked out his plan of rescue. I hope he succeeds.”
It took some little time for the commander to figure their position, and then it was only approximate. But at length he handed Tom a piece of paper with the latitude and longitude written on it.
In the meanwhile, the young inventor had been connecting up his apparatus. The wires were now all strung, and all that was necessary was to start the motor and dynamo.
A curious throng gathered about the little shack as Tom announced that he was about to flash into space the first message calling for help. He took his place at the box, to which had been fastened the apparatus for clicking off the Morse letters.
“Well, here we go,” he said, with a smile.
His fingers clasped the rude key he had fashioned from bits of brass and hard rubber. The motor was buzzing away, and the electric dynamo was purring like some big cat.
Just as Tom opened the circuit, to send the current into the instrument, there came an ominous rumbling of the earth.
“Another quake!” screamed Mrs. Anderson. But it was over in a second, and calmness succeeded the incipient panic.
Suddenly, overhead, there sounded a queer crackling noise, a vicious, snapping, as if from some invisible whips.
“Mercy! What’s that?” cried Mrs. Nestor.
“The wireless,” replied Tom, quietly. “I am going to send a message for help, off into space. I hope some one receives it—and answers,” he added, in a low tone.
The crackling increased. While they gathered about him, Tom Swift pressed the key, making and breaking the current until he had sent out from Earthquake Island the three letters—”C.Q.D.” And he followed them by giving their latitude and longitude. Over and over again he flashed out this message.
Would it be answered? Would help come? If so, from where? And if so, would it be in time? These were questions that the castaways asked themselves. As for Tom, he sat at the key, clicking away, while, overhead, from the wires fastened to the dead tree, flashed out the messages.
CHAPTER XXII
Anxious Days
After the first few minutes of watching Tom click out the messages, the little throng of castaways that had gathered about the shack, moved away. The matter had lost its novelty for them, though, of course, they were vitally interested in the success of Tom’s undertaking. Only Mr. Damon and Mr. Fenwick remained with the young inventor, for he needed help, occasionally, in operating the dynamo, or in adjusting the gasolene motor. Mrs. Nestor, who, with Mrs. Anderson, was looking after the primitive housekeeping arrangements, occasionally strolled up the hill to the little shed.
“Any answer yet, Mr. Swift?” she would ask.
“No.” was the reply. “We can hardly expect any so soon,” and Mrs. Nestor would depart, with a sigh.
Knowing that his supply of gasolene was limited, Tom realized that he could not run the dynamo steadily, and keep flashing the wireless messages into space. He consulted with his two friends on the subject, and Mr. Damon said:
“Well, the best plan, I think, would be only to send out the flashes over the wires at times when other wireless operators will be on the lookout, or, rather, listening. There is no use wasting our fuel. We can’t get any more here.”
“That’s true,” admitted Tom, “but how can we pick out any certain time, when we can be sure that wireless operators, within a zone of a thousand miles, will be listening to catch clicks which call for help from the unknown?”
“We can’t,” decided Mr. Fenwick. “The only thing to do is to trust to chance. If there was only some way so you would not have to be on duty all the while, and could send out messages automatically, it would be good.”
Tom shook his head. “I have to stay here to adjust the apparatus,” he said. “It works none too easily as it is, for I didn’t have just what I needed from which to construct this station. Anyhow, even if I could rig up something to click out ‘C.Q.D.’ automatically, I could hardly arrange to have the answer come that way. And I want to be here when the answer comes.”
“Have you any plan, then?” asked Mr. Damon. “Bless my shoe laces! there are enough problems to solve on this earthquake island.”
“I thought of this,” said Tom. “I’ll send out our call for help from nine to ten in the morning. Then I’ll wait, and send out another call from two to three in the afternoon. Around seven in the evening I’ll try again, and then about ten o’clock at night, before going to bed.”
“That ought to be sufficient,” agreed Mr. Fenwick. “Certainly we must save our gasolene, for there is no telling how long we may have to stay here, and call for help.”
“It won’t be long if that scientist Parker has his way,” spoke Mr. Damon, grimly. “Bless my hat band, but he’s a most uncomfortable man to have around; always predicting that the island is going to sink! I hope we are rescued before that happens.”
“I guess we all do,” remarked Mr. Fenwick. “But, Tom, here is another matter. Have you thought about getting an answer from the unknown—from some ship or wireless station, that may reply to your calls? How can you tell when that will come in?”
“I can’t.”
“Then won’t you or some of us, have to be listening all the while?”
“No, for I think an answer will come only directly after I have sent cut a call, and it has been picked up by some operator. Still there is a possibility that some operator might receive my message, and report to his chief, or some one in authority over him, before replying. In that time I might go away. But to guard against that I will sleep with the telephone receiver clamped to my ear. Then I can hear the answer come over the wires, and can jump up and reply.”
“Do you mean you will sleep here?” asked Mr. Damon, indicating the shack where the wireless apparatus was contained.
“Yes,” answered Tom, simply.
“Can’t we take turns listening for the answer?” inquired Mr. Fenwick, “and so relieve you?”
“I’m afraid not, unless you understand the Morse code,” replied Tom. “You see there may be many clicks, which result from wireless messages flying back and forth in space, and my receiver will pick them up. But they will mean nothing. Only the answer to our call for help will be of any service to us.”
“Do you mean
to say that you can catch messages flying back and forth between stations now?” asked Mr. Fenwick.
“Yes,” replied the young inventor, with a smile. “Here, listen for yourself,” and he passed the head-instrument over to the Whizzer’s former owner. The latter listened a moment.
“All I can hear are some faint clicks,” he said.
“But they are a message,” spoke Tom. “Wait, I’ll translate,” and he put the receiver to his ear. “‘Steamship Falcon reports a slight fire in her forward compartment,’” said Tom, slowly. “‘It is under control, and we will proceed.’”
“Do you mean to say that was the message you heard?” cried Mr. Damon. “Bless my soul, I never can understand it!”
“It was part of a message,” answered Tom. “I did not catch it all, nor to whom it was sent.”
“But why can’t you send a message to that steamship then, and beg them to come to our aid?” asked Mr. Fenwick. “Even if they have had a fire, it is out now, and they ought to be glad to save life.”
“They would come to our aid, or send,” spoke Tom, “but I can not make their wireless operator pick up our message. Either his apparatus is not in tune, or in accord with ours, or he is beyond our zone.”
“But you heard him,” insisted Mr. Damon.
“Yes, but sometimes it is easier to pick up messages than it is to send them. However, I will keep on trying.”
Putting into operation the plan he had decided on for saving their supply of gasolene, Tom sent out his messages the remainder of the day, at the intervals agreed upon. Then the apparatus was shut down, but the lad paid frequent visits to the shack, and listened to the clicks of the telephone receiver. He caught several messages, but they were not in response to his appeals for aid.
That night there was a slight earthquake shock, but no more of the island fell into the sea, though the castaways were awakened by the tremors, and were in mortal terror for a while.
Three days passed, days of anxious waiting, during which time Tom sent out message after message by his wireless, and waited in vain for an answer. There were three shocks in this interval, two slight, and one very severe, which last cast into the ocean a great cliff on the far end of the island. There was a flooding rush of water, but no harm resulted.
“It is coming nearer,” said Mr. Parker.
“What is?” demanded Mr. Hosbrook.
“The destruction of our island. My theory will soon be confirmed,” and the scientist actually seemed to take pleasure in it.
“Oh, you and your theory!” exclaimed the millionaire in disgust. “Don’t let me hear you mention it again! Haven’t we troubles enough?” whereat Mr. Parker went off by himself, to look at the place where the cliff had fallen.
Each night Tom slept with the telephone receiver to his ear, but, though it clicked many times, there was not sounded the call he had adopted for his station—“E. I.”—Earthquake Island. In each appeal he sent out he had requested that if his message was picked up, that the answer be preceded by the letters “E.I.”
It was on the fourth day after the completion of the wireless station, that Tom was sending out his morning calls. Mrs. Nestor came up the little hill to the shack where Tom was clicking away.
“No replies yet, I suppose?” she inquired, and there was a hopeless note in her voice.
“None yet, but they may come any minute,” and Tom tried to speak cheerfully.
“I certainly hope so,” added Mary’s mother, “But I came up more especially now, Mr. Swift, to inquire where you had stored the rest of the food.”
“The rest of the food?”
“Yes, the supply you took from the wrecked airship. We have used up nearly all that was piled in the improvised kitchen, and we’ll have to draw on the reserve supply.”
“The reserve,” murmured Tom.
“Yes, there is only enough in the shack where Mrs. Anderson and I do the cooking, to last for about two days. Isn’t there any more?”
Tom did not answer. He saw the drift of the questioning. Their food was nearly gone, yet the castaways from the Resolute thought there was still plenty. As a matter of fact there was not another can, except those in the kitchen shack.
“Get out wherever there is left some time today, if you will, Mr. Swift,” went on Mrs. Nestor, as she turned away, “and Mrs. Anderson and I will see if we can fix up some new dishes for you men-folks.”
“Oh—all right,” answered Tom, weakly.
His hand dropped from the key of the instrument. He sat staring into space. Food enough for but two days more, with earthquakes likely to happen at any moment, and no reply yet to his appeals for aid! Truly the situation was desperate. Tom shook his head. It was the first time he had felt like giving up.
CHAPTER XXIII
A Reply In The Dark
The young inventor looked out of the wireless shack. Down on the beach he saw the little band of castaways. They were gathered in a group about Mr. Jenks, who seemed to be talking earnestly to them. The two ladies were over near the small building that served as a kitchen.
“More food supplies needed, eh?” mused Tom. “Well, I don’t know where any more is to come from. We’ve stripped the Whizzer bare.” He glanced toward what remained of the airship. “I guess we’ll have to go on short rations, until help comes,” and, wondering what the group of men could be talking about, Tom resumed his clicking out of his wireless message.
He continued to send it into space for several minutes after ten o’clock, the hour at which he usually stopped for the morning, for he thought there might be a possible chance that the electrical impulses would be picked up by some vessel far out at sea, or by some station operator who could send help.
But there came no answering clicks to the “E. I.” station—to Earthquake Island—and, after a little longer working of the key, Tom shut down the dynamo, and joined the group on the beach.
“I tell you it’s our only chance,” Mr. Jenks was saying. “I must get off this island, and that’s the only way we can do it. I have large interests at stake. If we wait for a reply to this wireless message we may all be killed, though I appreciate that Mr. Swift is doing his best to aid us. But it is hopeless!”
“What do you think about it, Tom?” asked Mr. Damon, turning to the young inventor.
“Think about what?”
“Why Mr. Jenks has just proposed that we build a big raft, and launch it. He thinks we should leave the island.”
“It might be a good idea,” agreed the lad, as he thought of the scant food supply. “Of course, I can’t say when a reply will be received to my calls for aid, and it is best to be prepared.”
“Especially as the island may sink any minute,” added Mr. Parker. “If it does, even a raft will be little good, as it may be swamped in the vortex. I think it would be a good plan to make one, then anchor it some distance out from the island. Then we can make a small raft, and paddle out to the big one in a hurry if need be.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea, too,” conceded Tom.
“And we must stock it well with provisions,” said Mr. Damon. “Put plenty of water and food aboard.”
“We can’t,” spoke Tom, quietly.
“Why not?”
“Because we haven’t plenty of provisions. That’s what I came down to speak about,” and the lad related what Mrs. Nestor had said.
“Then there is but one thing to do,” declared Mr. Fenwick.
“What?” asked Captain Mentor.
“We must go on half rations, or quarter rations, if need be. That will make our supply last longer. And another thing—we must not let the women folks know. Just pretend that we’re not hungry, but take only a quarter, or at most, not more than a half of what we have been in the habit of taking. There is plenty of water, thank goodness, and we may be able to live until help comes.”
“Then shall we build the raft?” asked Mr. Hosbrook.
It was decided that this would be a good plan, and they started it that sam
e day. Trees were felled, with axes and saws that had been aboard the Whizzer, and bound together, in rude fashion, with strong trailing vines from the forest. A smaller raft, as a sort of ferry, was also made.
This occupied them all that day, and part of the next. In the meanwhile, Tom continued to flash out his appeals for help, but no answers came. The men cut down their rations, and when the two ladies joked them on their lack of appetite, they said nothing. Tom was glad that Mrs. Nestor did not renew her request to him to get out the reserve food supply from what remained in the wreck of the airship. Perhaps Mr. Nestor had hinted to her the real situation.
The large raft was towed out into a quiet bay of the island, and anchored there by means of a heavy rock, attached to a rope. On board were put cans of water, which were lashed fast, but no food could be spared to stock the rude craft. All the castaways could depend on, was to take with them, in the event of the island beginning to sink, what rations they had left when the final shock should come.
This done, they could only wait, and weary was that waiting. Tom kept faithfully to his schedule, and his ear ached from the constant pressure of the telephone receiver. He heard message after message flash through space, and click on his instrument, but none of them was in answer to his. On his face there came a grim and hopeless look.
One afternoon, a week following the erection of the wireless station, Mate Fordam came upon a number of turtles. He caught some, by turning them over on their backs, and also located a number of nests of eggs under the warm sands.
“This will be something to eat,” he said, joyfully, and indeed the turtles formed a welcome food supply. Some fish were caught, and some clams were cast up by the tide, all of which eked out the scanty food supply that remained. The two ladies suspected the truth now and they, too, cut down their allowance.
Tom, who had been sitting with the men in their sleeping shack, that evening, rose, as the hour of ten approached. It was time to send out the last message of the night, and then he would lie down on an improvised couch, with the telephone receiver clamped to his ear, to wait, in the silence of the darkness, for the message saying that help was on the way.
The Tom Swift Megapack Page 75