Radio Boys Loyalty; Or, Bill Brown Listens In

In the morning Bill and Gus were up at daylight, as was their habit. The storm had ceased, and it was turning warm, the snow melting already. The boys went to the barn to help with the milking; they got in some wood and performed other chores. Mr. Farrell, coming in, declared with his hearty laugh that they could stay as long as they might wish to, for they had certainly more than earned their food and lodging. As they went in to the breakfast table he said.

“Mother, better give that other young fellow his money back. Where is he, anyway? Not down yet?”

“Not yet,” said Mrs. Farrell, “though I called him twice.”

“I’ll get him up and down,” said Gus, going toward the stairway.

“Father, have you seen Gyp?” asked Mary Farrell. “I’ve called him too, but he doesn’t come for his breakfast.”

The farmer shook his head and, stepping to the back door, whistled sharply and at length. Turning to come in he heard a low whine and a quick search found the dog, lying on his side and unable to rise, his eyes dull and bloodshot, his tongue protruding. Mr. Farrell had seen something of the sort before. He picked up the poor little beast and carried him to a warm bed by the kitchen stove.

“Sarah, he’s been poisoned! Nothing else. Getting over it, though. What—?” And then they heard Gus calling from above.

“Bill! Bill! Come up here, quick! Tony’s gone!”

It was true and the manner of his going was very apparent. The room had been entered from without, noiselessly and by experts. Taking advantage not only of the lad’s sleeping soundly, the housebreakers had used some anæsthetic, for a wad of cotton that smelled like a drug store lay on the carpet. Tony had evidently been roughly dressed. His collar, necktie and cap lay on the bureau and his stockings on the floor. That he had been carried out of the window and to the ground was certain. The two ends of the ladder had left their imprint in the snow in the sill and on the ground. The ladder itself had been thrown among the bushes.

Kidnaped! There was no question about that; but how could such a thing have happened? A sturdy boy, able to put up a fight, and the thing done so silently as not to waken a soul in the house. Healthy, sound sleepers, depending on a dog—and that poor beast put down and out. Poor Tony! What would they do with him!

Bill and Gus hastily related their affair with the ugly Sicilian and that of which Tony had told them. They at once found that the big car had turned about and gone. Footprints in the snow proved that the occupants of the car had been the kidnapers.

The farmer and his family were duly excited over the case. Nothing so dramatic had ever before happened to them. Merritt was also wrought up to a pretty high pitch, for Tony had hired him very generously. The young Italian had shown himself to be a courteous, well-bred gentleman and had commanded respect. The manner of his disappearance, and the possible tragedy lurking behind it, had earned the sympathy of them all.

But the Farrells deferred everything to Bill and Gus who were both eager to act, and to investigate the too evident, yet mysterious crime, though they were rendered helpless by the snow-piled roads.

“We’ll have to use your ’phone, Mr. Farrell,” said Bill. “We will pay all the tolls. We’ve got to make this thing known and put Tony’s people wise. His father’s a wealthy Italian banker in the city, and he’ll begin to move things when he hears about this.” He turned to Gus: “If we could only get to the school and get a whack at the transmitter, couldn’t we make things hum?”

“Why, my lads,” said Mr. Farrell, “that is just the thing to do and I can get you there in a hurry. These automobiles have got it all over our horses for speed, but not for power. My bays will land you at the school in short order and through the biggest snow that you ever saw. Wait till I hitch them up to the Dearborn.”

He was as good as his word. After promising to keep the Farrells and Merritt posted as to the progress of the hunt for Tony and its outcome, they were on the road behind a pair of splendid, steaming, plunging horses, and soon back at the Tech. The Doctor, about to depart for church, was startled by the news, and he at once turned the transmitting station over to the boys, going himself to the ’phone and keeping it busy. Mr. Farrell remained a short time. Then wishing the boys success, he departed.

The county detective, the mounted police force, the city force and a private detective agency were all informed of the circumstance, with a full description of Luigi Malatesta. The incident became a “nine-days’ wonder” in the newspapers. Soon it was learned that the Sicilian had, on the very day before Tony’s disappearance, sold his restaurant in Guilford for a song. He had disappeared with several others, questionable characters with whom he had been associated, and on whom he had evidently relied to do the kidnaping. It was discovered also, through the confession of a Sicilian suspect, that Tony had been shadowed for weeks as he went about the school.

But all knowledge of the boy’s whereabouts was totally lacking. Clues were run down without success. The search had failed. Mr. Sabaste, with a famous detective, came to the school and talked with Bill and Gus. He went with them to see the Farrells, where he investigated every detail. The search went far and wide, with no trace of Tony.

The banker offered five thousand dollars for information that would insure his son’s return, and smaller sums for any positive data, which might lead to the arrest of the kidnapers. Tony’s mother was dead. An older brother who had been in business in the far west was once a victim of the Malatesta clan. In spite of every possible effort, the disappearance of the boy remained a mystery; nor could any of the Malatesta relatives, known by various names and suspected as accomplices, be found.

Bill and Gus were now in possession of one of the finest radio receiving sets that could be made, and several other students had purchased similar, or less perfect, sets from the boys. Whenever opportunity permitted they either had the loud speaker on, or sat with the ’phones clamped to their ears, listening in and having much amusement with the various broadcasters, public and private. It was a liberal education to hear a tenth of what was going on, besides the regular concert program each evening. But most in their thoughts was the hope, often expressed between them, of hearing something that might in some way reflect on the kidnaping mystery, for the boys missed their kind and courteous Italian friend.

“Gus, I can’t get it out of my head,” said Bill one day, “that we’re not, as they say in diplomatic language, entirely persona grata here. At least, not as we should want to be if we have the proper loyalty to the school. We have our friends, of course, among seniors, freshmen and even some of the sophs, but the sophs generally have very little use for us. Even some of our own class, in the sports, have a big leaning toward Siebold and his bunch, and they like to go along with the shouters.”

“Well, I guess they’ll have to go along, then,” remarked Gus indifferently.

“But Gus, it’s a reflection on us. We ought to be in as good fellowship as anybody. Now that we’ve made out so well in our radio work and are not nearly so busy, with the rest of the term all lectures and exams, you know, we might gee in a little with the social end of it. And sports, too, Gus. I can’t do anything but look on and shout, but you——”

Bill’s remarks were inspired by a glimpse across the greensward at a bunch of fellows on the ball field, evidently at town ball and practice. With the coming of spring and warm weather the Tech ball team had been newly organized and put at practice. The next month would see them crossing bats with Guilford Academy, Springdale School and other nearby institutions. There was great rivalry between the home team and Guilford Academy, which had a strong team, and was much the better of the two, except that the Tech School had acquired, through Siebold’s efforts, a very good outside pitcher who kept the Academy lads guessing much of the time. The winning of games, therefore, during the preceding season had been pretty even, Guilford leading by one.

And then, at the behest of older and more judicial heads, representatives of the League of Schools had met and decided that each team must play only with members of its student body, hiring no semi-professional pitchers, or even coachers, thus making the contests entirely fair.

A result of this was that in the games of this season Guilford, with a pitcher from among its fellows who had previously given his services to other teams as well, simply ran away with Marshallton Tech, winning one game by the score of fifteen to two and the other was a shut-out.

“Gus, I’ve bought a ball and I’ve got Sam Kerry, who says he used to catch for his home team somewhere in the west, to agree to keep his mouth shut and pass a few with you, off somewhere where nobody will see.”

“Righto, old Bill! Anything you say—but what’s the idea?”

“Well, Gus, I don’t like Guilford’s swamping this team in the way it has, and I propose to try to stop it.” Bill’s lips were compressed and he had that look in his eyes that meant determination.

“But Siebold—” began Gus.

“Doesn’t entirely run this school, nor its ball team, even if he is captain and general high muck-a-muck,” declared Bill.

It was with extreme satisfaction that Bill sat on a log at one side of a path in the woods and watched little Kerry, who proved to be no mean hand at stopping all kinds of balls, nearly knocked off his feet by the machine-gun-like pitches of “that other fellow from Freeport,” as Gus was sometimes called.

One early afternoon the gym instructor also sat by Bill and watched the performance. Mr. Gay had promised secrecy, but not to refrain from comment.

“I’ll say he has not only got command of his ball and three good styles, but he also knows some tricks that ought to worry any man at the bat. Throw that waiting ball again, Grier!” the instructor called. “I want to watch that—oh, fine! It looks like a hard one and a fellow will strike over it nine times out of ten. Well, I’ve got this to say: If we expect to win any games we’ve got to have a fellow like Grier in the box, but Siebold will stick to Maxwell who is about a fifth rater—at his best.”

“But has Siebold all the say?” Bill queried.

“A good deal of it. You see his father backs up the boy in everything, and he has put the club on its feet financially, in a bigger way than even the Guilford team. Moreover, the elder Siebold’s money built our grandstand, the dressing-rooms and hired our pitchers for quite a while. So young Siebold can afford to play politics and insure a following, which nobody, even the professors, can stop. And the faculty and the Doctor don’t bother over the matter. That chap is going to be a state senator, or a Congressman some day, I have no doubt.”

“It won’t work, though, Mr. Gay,” declared Bill, “because it isn’t justice. Others besides Siebold are interested in and loyal to the school. We want to see our team win, don’t we?”

“Yes, of course. I’m going to shoot that at Siebold and, if you’ll let me, I’m going to hint that we have a pitcher among us who outranks his choice in all the high points.”

It was on the next afternoon, which was rainy, that Bill found the library pretty full of readers and among them were six or seven of the ball team. He took a seat beside Dixon and directly across the table from Siebold and Sadler. He turned to Dixon:

“When is the next ball game?” he asked.

“We play Springdale next Saturday, but they’re easy. The last game with Guilford is Saturday week.”

“It’s too bad that we get licked so unmercifully when there’s no need for it,” Bill remarked.

“No need for it? No, there’s no need for it, but——”

“I suppose we have needed it to put some sense into us, but no longer. It would be pretty easy to clean that bunch if we went at it right.”

“How easy?” asked Dixon.

“Why, you know without asking that. Putting a good man in the box and another behind the bat, of course.”

“Where’d you get your good man?”

“Here in the school.”

“Who?”

“I guess you’ll have to keep your eyes open. Anybody ought to——”

“Listen to this, Siebold.” Dixon leaned over the table. “Brown says we’ve got pitching material——”

“Well, what of it? Don’t I know it?”

“It’s a blamed sure bet he doesn’t know it, or if he does he ought to be jailed for conspiracy to beat the school team,” laughed Bill, still addressing Dixon.

“How’s that, Brown? What’s your dope?” ventured Sadler, who alone really dared to question Siebold’s authority. Bill went on, in forcible language, for he was aware that Siebold was listening, and repeated what he had said to Mr. Gay and to Dixon. The argument about every one in the school being interested in the success of the ball team seemed to strike home, and several boys gathering round began to make comments favorable to the sentiment. The librarian came over and objected to the talking.

“Let’s go down to the gym and talk this thing over,” said Sadler. “Brown will spring this man on us if we’ll try him—eh, Brown?”

“Why, sure,” said Bill, rising.

“Come on, Siebold.”

“Too busy reading. Nothing to it, anyway.” Siebold didn’t even look up from his book.

“Is that so?” Sadler was angry. It was evident that he was willing to oppose the captain. Bill thought he saw an opportunity right here.

“He has only one vote,” he said, “and I understand that all of us who care to may have a say. I know several fellows who——”

Bill got no further. Siebold began to see that it might be best to permit no defection from his ranks and no outside interference. He followed the others out and across the campus, no word being said all the way by the several boys who, in part, made up the executive committee on baseball. They filed into the gym and got Mr. Gay into their conference.

“Now, then, Brown, what have you got under your skin?” said Siebold testily.

“You heard me in the library,” said Bill.

“Balderdash! There isn’t a fellow in the school who can pitch like Maxwell.”

“Oh, yes, there is, Siebold,” said Mr. Gay. “There’s no one who can play first base like Maxwell and your first baseman says he has a glass arm and is done. We have a pitcher who can pitch.”

“That’s the cheese!” said Maxwell. “I’ve told Siebold all along he ought to replace me.”

“Who is this wonderful guy?” asked Siebold.

“I’ll bet it’s that other fellow from Freeport,” put in one of the captain’s staunch supporters.

“Call it off in that case,” Siebold demanded.

“No, we won’t call it off. We’ll try him at practice,” said Sadler.

“Who’s captain of this team? We’ll play in our present positions, all of us, or we won’t play at all.”

“That’s right,” echoed two or three followers. Bill laughed.

“Will you accept a challenge to play a school scrub team?”

“No, nor that. Waste of time——”

“That’s nothing but silly stubbornness,” said Sadler, with rising wrath. “Wouldn’t it be just like practice? You’re a fatheaded——”

“Oh, now, see here, Siebold,” interposed the instructor. “You can’t refuse that. It will only bring out the best players and strengthen the team.”

“Well, then, if Mr. Gay says so,” Siebold agreed, “we’ll play you and we can shut out any bunch you can get together.”

Bill turned to Sadler. “You’re with us?”

“Sure, Siebold has a substitute for right field.”

“I’m with you, too,” said Dixon. “Put Longy in my place, Cap.”

Siebold grew angry. “You fellows have been kickers all along, and now you think that will weaken us. Well, if Ritter can’t take a fly better than you can, you big stiff, I’ll assassinate him; and Long is as good a short stop as you are, Dixon.”

“We have four other substitutes and I’ll promise three of them for our scrub team, Brown,” Sadler declared.

“All right; that’s seven fellows and we can pick up two more, surely. Let’s hunt them up right now,” demanded Bill.

They did. As it was clearing, they went to the diamond and after a little practice all round at town ball, Bill watching closely, they got into the places best suited to each player and then elected Bill manager and Sadler captain. The big fellow and Dixon had discarded their suits for plain shirt and trousers, and a small collection was taken up for pants and some extra gloves. Mr. Gay gave them a catcher’s mask and some bats.

The next afternoon, the challenge having been formally given, the match between the regulars and scrubs took place, Siebold winning the toss and taking the bases, Mr. Gay acted as umpire.

Maxwell seemed to be in better form than usual. Perhaps because he found a “ragged lot of players,” as Bill put it. The scrubs had not fully got together and they went out, two on strikes, and Sadler’s fly was caught. The regulars went to bat, laughing, Siebold straddling the plate.

Gus stood in the box, smiling. He nodded to little Kerry behind the bat and Kerry inclined his head to the left. Sadler and Dixon were watching closely. Could the new pitcher on whom Brown appeared to stake so much really do anything? If he could send them over the way he boxed, thought Sadler, “good night”! Brown was all the time springing something worth while. That was just why he and Dixon had been willing to make a final kick at Siebold’s arbitrary rulings. And now here was Siebold himself, one of the surest batters in the team, facing the unknown quantity.

Gus put on no gimcracks nor did he make fancy swings. He merely made a step forward, raised his arm to throw and held it about two seconds—then there came across the plate something more like a streak than a ball—so it seemed to Siebold—and little Kerry, who had been squatting, nearly went over backward with the loud plop in his glove. Siebold stood, dazed.

“One strike!” called the umpire.

The ball went back to Gus who took it out of the air as if he were plucking at a snowflake. Again the step forward, the raised arm and the ball came along swiftly at first, then slower, much slower, but keeping up. Siebold’s heart sang. He would take this thing on the end of his bat and lift it beyond any hopes of a fielder’s reaching it—it meant a two-bagger sure. He struck; there was no contact of bat and ball; a fraction of a second later the sound of the ball in Kerry’s glove told him he had “missed it by a mile,” as Sadler bawled it out.

“Two strikes!”

Siebold looked mad now. He was being tricked—that was certain. He would show this fellow if he could do that again! The ball came along swiftly, but too high. It was “one ball,” and he waited. The next was fairly swift, but it was going to bounce before it struck, yet it lifted and passed right over the plate almost a foot high and Siebold wondered why he had not swiped at it.

“Striker out!” called the umpire, and the captain of the regulars angrily threw down his bat.

Wilde came next. He was the regulars’ catcher, and the best batter of the team. Siebold stood, watching closely, a scowl on his face. Almost the same tactics were played, without Wilde ever knowing where the ball was! Another chose three bats before he got one to suit him—this fellow was Kline, the bunter. More than once he had made his base and let fellows on bases in by bunting one at his own feet and in such a manner that it rolled slowly toward the pitcher.

Three balls were called against Gus. The regulars commenced to smile and Siebold’s eyes sparkled. Then three streaks came, all over the plate, waist high and “striker out” sounded the third time. The regulars went to the field, the captain walking slowly and thoughtfully.

Gus went to bat and struck out. Little Kerry lifted a fly to left field that the fielder muffed and let roll, so that Kerry slid into second when the sphere was coming back again. Morton, a new man, struck out as though he were not sure whether he was fighting bears, or was merely in a debate, and Dixon hit a grounder to second and was caught out on first. Still no runs.

Gus always had the short step forward, always the uplifted arm that did not double forward at once. It was possibly confusing, instead of a notice to the batter to get ready, as one might have imagined. Quite a number of balls were called against Gus—fast, slow ones, up-shoots—but never four. Three batters went out in quick succession.

In the third inning Maxwell slowed up a little and the scrubs became wider awake. One of the new men who had, he declared, played ball very little and never shown a genius for hitting, sent a liner between pitcher and first that put him on his base. One of the regulars’ former substitutes hit another grounder that let him on first and the new man on second. The third and fourth man, their second time at bat, struck out again and then came big Sadler to the plate. His very first crack sent a fly so high and wide that the center and left fielders fell all over themselves in their effort to get it, while the center man made a wild throw, so that Sadler rather easily accomplished a home run.

It was three runs for the scrubs, as Gus again struck out. The third at the bat for the regulars proved to be “ancient history,” another expression of Sadler’s, with this difference: Siebold took his base on four balls, but he didn’t get any farther than first.

Little Kerry knocked another liner and this the man on second dropped, the short-stop getting it too late to first. Morton again went out. Dixon hit a liner for two bases that let Kerry in and again the new genius proved himself such by getting in a fly that on errors put him on third. Once more a substitute who after two fouls knocked a ball almost within reach over the first baseman’s head, made another home run on errors. The fourth was caught out on a foul, the fifth struck out and Sadler knocked another fly that was caught. Six runs for the scrubs—the regulars nothing.

Smiling, Gus came again to the box. Three batters in quick succession, after only three balls were called for two of them, struck out. They seemed to have no idea where the balls were passing, and little Kerry staggered back with every one sent in, though he, too, was smiling. And then, before the regulars could again take their places, something else occurred.

Siebold merely said: “Hold on, fellows!” He walked straight up to Gus, caught him by the arm and pulled him over toward Bill and Mr. Gay.

“See here,” said Siebold; “I’m no piker. I’ve been dead wrong and nobody has to tell me. So, Grier, honestly I never saw such pitching outside of the national leagues. And if you’ll let me, I want to be friends, and I want you on the team. Mr. Gay, you’re right: Maxwell on first and you, Grier, in the box. Are you with us?”

Siebold extended his hand and Gus shook it warmly. The captain turned to Bill. “You, too. We have to thank you for this business, the best stroke of luck we have ever had.”

Bill shook Siebold’s hand with as much gusto as he would have that of any downright hero. A fellow who could muzzle his pride and do the square thing in this manner, especially after he had been licked in a way that hurt, was a real man.

“And look here, Brown! I’ve generally messed up this captain business and the managing too; and you have got together a team in short order that I wouldn’t have believed could have slammed us for six runs. Will you manage us? I’ll see that you are elected. Grier can be cap——”

“No, sir,” said Bill. “Gus doesn’t want to be captain. You’ll remain captain, Siebold, or we’ll both take our doll clothes and go home. But I will try my hand at advising, if you wish. ‘Two heads,’ you know——”

“Hurrah!” shouted Siebold. “Brown is manager! And we’ve got a pitcher now! We’re going to lick those Guilford fellows so bad they’ll think they’ve got brain fever!”

Bill for once laid aside everything but his studies to give his attention to the game with Guilford Academy, the last athletic contest of the school year. It was played at Guilford, where the grounds were fenced in and tickets of invitation given. As manager of the visiting team, Bill had his quota to distribute in and outside of the Tech. With his characteristic thoroughness he saw that no one was slighted who was at all worthy, rich or poor. This was not so liberally managed at the Guilford end.

The grand stand was pretty well filled, but Bill had reserved some good seats and to these he conducted the Farrells and their niece, stopping to tell them that Gus was pitching and that they must root for Marshallton, which of course they did. After this, with some tickets left over, Bill went outside and skirted the grounds, finding a dozen youngsters hunting holes in the fence, and to these he gave his remaining tickets. Not so long ago, he had been just such a youngster himself, and he had an abounding sympathy for those who possessed the keenest capacity for enjoyment, but were excluded without just reason.

The game was typical of such contests between schools of the kind in all except the performance of Gus in the box. That youth, always smiling, never self-conscious enough even to acknowledge the plaudits meant for him, not only pitched with professional skill, but in his every movement showed a grace which demanded attention.

From the first inning the result was a foregone conclusion. The home team held the visitors to no runs and went to bat with the utmost confidence, only to be retired, one, two, three, on strikes. They shut the visitors out again, and two of them got on bases to remain there and die. They let Siebold come home on Wilde’s fly and errors and were again fanned.

They repeated this, with little Kerry at bat and only one of them made a hit, the ball lodging in the pitcher’s extended hand. They fought hard and retired the Techs for three more innings, meeting the same fate themselves. Then their pitcher weakened and the team went to pieces, with three men on bases, and Wilde let them all come home on a long grounder, but himself died on second, with two others out on strikes.

They went to pieces again when Sadler knocked a fly over the fence and made a home run, or rather a home walk, and they again were retired in rapid succession. Score, six to nothing, and the Marshallton crowd, including the dignified president of Tech, the instructors to a man, the Farrells and a lot of other sympathizers yelled their throats sore, a bunch of fans going for Gus, hoisting him on high and marching around with him, singing a school chantey:

And so on for half a dozen or so silly verses of the kind, Gus, meanwhile, suffering both physically and mentally, for being thus tossed about is by no means comfortable, and his modesty was such as to make him want to run and hide.

And then the gang went for Bill, but Doctor Field protected him and they expended their enthusiasm on Captain Siebold, Sadler and little Kerry, the catcher. After which Guilford asked for a return match, but the term was nearly ended and that must go over until next year.

“I wish,” said Bill to Doctor Field, as they journeyed homeward, “that Tony Sabaste could have been here to see this game.”

Exams and exercises were over and the students mostly gone. A few remained to brush up on studies, or to complete work begun in the shop. Bill and Gus were among these. They had an order from one of the professors for a very fine radio receiver and it was not quite finished. The matron and cooks had vanished and the boys had to get their own meals. As one after another of the lingerers left, the dormitory became quieter, almost oppressively lonesome, to Bill at least, who was social by nature; but Gus, the hermit, rather enjoyed it.

Listening in over the radio was not neglected. It served to cheer the monotony. Not only were the boys alive to the advertised concerts and entertainments, but they caught a tangle of outside waves that was often quite amusing.

Only two more days were required for them to finish their job. They had decided to let their receiver remain, as they were to occupy the same room next term, and now two receivers at home would serve. The loud speaker had been removed, adjustments made, and now Bill sat at the little table with the ’phones clamped on his ears.

Suddenly he called to Gus: “Get ’em on! Get em’ on, quick! Somebody is sending a message out to Marconi—only the end of it now, though.”

“—be most honored, I assure you,” came through the air. “Several whom I think you will be glad to meet will be there and we shall be glad to have a word from you.” There was a pause.

“It’s an invitation to a banquet, or something,” Gus said.

“Sure. I wonder if he’s going to accept.” This from Bill.

“When did he come back? I thought he sailed away last fall.”

“Been back a week; read it in the paper. He’s on his boat again, the El—listen! He’s talking.”

“Marconi speaking. Gentlemen of the Society of Electrical Research, I shall accept with much pleasure, but please do not put me down for an extended speech. Only a few remarks—probably on my subject. But I shall make no reference to Mars; my interest in that is almost nil. That is a newspaper romance, and I am really getting very tired of being misunderstood. I would be very glad if, in the course of the evening, someone would jestingly refer to this and absolve me from holding such untenable ideas. I thank you. I shall be there.”

“Gee-whiz, Gus, I wonder if the time will ever come when we’ll get invitations like that, eh? And say, he doesn’t take any stock in that message-from-Mars foolishness.”

“Well, I guess it’s silly, all right,” Gus agreed.

“Why, sure. They can’t even tell if Mars has any life on it, and if it has, it is mighty unlikely that any kind of creatures have developed brains enough to understand radio. Shucks! No real scientist will waste his time on any guesswork like that. We want to know more through the telescope first.”

“But maybe the telescope can’t tell us—then what? We want to get at it anyway we can, don’t we?”

“Oh, I suppose, in any sensible, possible, likely way, but not on such a supposition. It would be like shooting at the moon: if a high-powered gun could get its projectile beyond our attraction of gravitation and if it were aimed right, why, then the shot might hit the mark. Too blamed many ‘ifs.’ And some of the greatest astronomers say Mars isn’t inhab—what’s this?”

A very distant, not easily understood voice came to them. There seemed to be some interference which not even their well-made loose coupler could filter out. Apparently there could be nothing very entertaining about this, except the desire to get the better of a difficult task.

“— Atlantic. Latitude 39 — — — chased her, but — lost —. The fog was — — —. On board, when start — — transferred, we think. Headed west. Got a radio from the Government tug Nev — —. Think it must have been the same. Putting in toward Point Gifford, they said —. Think they have landed by now. Better opportunity to demand ransom from the —. Italian all right; sure of that. — The banker will — — — — —. So you be — — — —.”

The voice died away; a few clickings came and then silence. Bill turned to Gus. In matters of jumping at conclusions, he had long learned to depend most on his chum’s undoubted talents, just as Gus, in most things mental, played second fiddle to Bill.

“Say, Gus, could it be—?” Bill whispered.

“Sure is! Nothing else. Ransom, banker, Italian.”

Gus felt no uncertainty. “They’re after them, sure. Mr. Sabaste has had the hunt kept up on land and sea—we know that. And this is just a clue—an attempt to get on the trail again. Point Gifford—Bill, I know that country. Went all along the coast there once with Uncle Bob. You remember when? He was cutting timber down in the coast swamps. I explored—great place for that! Sand dunes, pines, inlets; awfully wild. Some old cabins here and there.”

“They’re landing there. Gus, I’ll bet they’re going to bring—do you think it can be Tony, Gus?”

“Who else? They’re trying to make Mr. Sabaste pay a ransom and they’re going to be in a place where they can make sure of getting it. What Tony said about the Malatesta bunch being short of money must be true, and I guess that restaurant business made it worse. They’re going to try to make a pretty sure thing——”

“But Gus, this radio was intended for somebody on shore who will watch them and maybe nab them.”

“No, indeed. They’re not likely to nab them. They have already landed, you see, and the detectives will watch the Upper Point, which is the only landing place. But if these chaps are foxy, they will come to the Lower Point, ten miles south, and cut across the inlet and the thoroughfare in a small boat. Then their yacht, or whatever she is, will sail up past the Upper Point, put to sea and the detectives will think she has given up the idea of landing. I rather think I’m on to what their scheme will be. An old oysterman showed me what some smugglers did, and got away with it for a long time. I guess the state police never have got on to this.”

“Well, then, Gus, it’s up to us to tell——”

“With several thousand dollars to save for Tony’s dad? And who would believe a couple of kids, anyway?” demanded Gus.

“But how——?”

“Let them watch the Upper Point, and if they land there, all right. I’m going down to hunt over the Lower Point.”

“You, Gus? But these fellows are a bunch of desperate scamps; gunmen, no doubt. There’ll be a lot of them, maybe——”

“No; not more than two or three. Luigi Malatesta, his brother, I think from Merritt’s description, and an accomplice or two.”

“Four, Gus; maybe more. You wouldn’t have a chance——”

“Well, not in a stand-up fight, I suppose. But they won’t be suspecting a kid in old fisherman’s duds, and I can do some bushwhacking, I guess.”

“But if you get hurt, Gus?”

“Well, there’s a lot more like me everywhere. Another brother at home, too. I’m going to try for it, Bill. I’m not going to tote a pistol, but take Dad’s hammerless, double-barreled shotgun. He has quit hunting, and he said I could have it. They’ll think I’m just a native.”

“But where are you going to hang out? Your Uncle Bob isn’t there any more.”

“With old Dan, the oysterman. He’ll be tickled, I think, and I’ll pay my way.”

“Don’t get hurt, old fellow. I wish I could go with you.”

“You bet I wish you could, Bill. But you pick up what you can and maybe you’ll have a chance to get it to me in some way.”

“Oh, Gus, I know a scheme: That portable set we made Tompkins—it’s in his room. He would be tickled, for he liked Tony, and he has gone to Saranac Lake. They’ve got one up there, so he didn’t take this. We’ll get in his room and get it for you to take along. Then I’ll stay here, glue my ear to the phones and radio you everything I know, for they are all away, and I can use their transmitter.”

“Portable idea is fine, Bill, but all the rest is bunk. What, really, can you do here?”

“Well, then, I know: We’ll swipe the keys, unhook the school transmitting set and I’ll go with you and set it up at Oysterman Dan’s. Then we can work together.”

“Fine! But how about the license?”

“Got one. Merely change of locality, and my own license will let me operate anywhere. Let’s get busy.”

It was a good cause, yet the boys were up against a doubtful procedure. The janitor of the school was a good-natured, but stubborn chap. He liked Bill and Gus, but they knew he would never let them take anything from the buildings without special consent. And while there was no time to get this permission, Bill and Gus knew that all concerned would be in favor of their motive. If they injured anything they knew they would more than make it good; or that Mr. Sabaste would make it good. Even Mr. Hooper would, if called on.

So they wrote a note to Mr. Hooper, explaining fully what they intended doing and requesting that he reimburse the school for any loss or injury to the broadcasting instrument in case anything happened to both of them. Then they placed this letter where it would be found in their room, with a request to the finder to deliver it.

The janitor, they knew, was a bug on fishing. Bill coaxed him to take a day off while they watched the place. He did this, and while Mrs. Royce was strenuously engaged with her housework, the boys got the keys to the radio room. The rest was easy, even to fixing up camouflaged parts that would befool Mr. Royce, if he should enter the room. They got the apparatus in parts to their own room, where they packed it up, and Gus climbed into Tompkins’ room through the transom, handed out the portable set and got out the way he got in.

The next day, again sending for Mr. Merritt and his taxi, they were on their way to the station at Guilford, and from there by train to the shore, Gus debouching at a convenient junction for a two-hour trip home, while Bill patiently waited. When Gus got back to the junction he had the shotgun and some old clothes for both, though Bill might have no need to disguise.

Reaching the terminus of the railroad, the boys hired a rather dilapidated team of mules drawing a farm wagon, with youthful driver to match, and made a long, slow journey, especially tiresome to these eager, expectant lads, that landed them by the most direct route at Oysterman Dan’s little cottage.

The old fellow came out and was so delighted to see Gus that he gave him and Bill a real welcome. He was a bachelor who lived alone, but lived well. He kept to himself and yet was not averse to having a little company of his own choosing. Apparently he would not have wanted more entertaining fellows than Bill and Gus, or better listeners, for he liked to spin yarns. When he found the boys insisted upon paying him for board and lodging and certain privileges he was further pleased. Let them put up “one o’ them thar wirelesses?” He sure would and welcome. It would be a “heap o’ fun,” and when they told him of the purpose of it he was elated.

Nothing could have been more characteristic of the imagination and optimism of youth than the making of all these extensive preparations on the merest guesswork, and after the boys had arrived on the scene, not half a mile from Lower Gifford’s Point, doubts began to assail Bill with much force.

“By jingo, Gus! Here we are, at considerable expense and a deal of trouble, taking it for granted that we’re going to do wonderful things, and we even don’t know that the theory we are working on is worth a blamed thing.”

“Oh, yes; we do,” said the intuitive Gus, who, looking like a woebegone swamp dweller, had just come in from the dunes. “And soon we’ll know a whole lot more. I just saw two gunners in the woods above the point, and if they aren’t Italians I don’t know one.”

The boys were a long day putting up their transmitting instrument, with its extensive aërial stretched between tall pines near the cottage. They would depend on the portable receiver.

And then, leaving Bill listening, poring over books, or chatting with old Dan, when the latter was off the water, Gus got into his ragged togs again, took his gun and started out prowling. And he prowled wisely and well.