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Title: The Radio Detectives

Author: A. Hyatt Verrill

Release date: April 30, 2012 [eBook #39576]
                Most recently updated: December 7, 2023

Language: English

Credits: Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library (http://www.hathitrust.org/digital_library)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RADIO DETECTIVES ***
[Illustration: “HELP! SEND FOR HELP!”]


THE RADIO DETECTIVES

by

A. HYATT VERRILL

Author of “The Deep Sea Hunters,”  “Isles of Spice
and Palm,” “The Book of the Motor Boat,” etc.




D. Appleton and Company
New York :: 1922 :: London

Copyright, 1922, by D. Appleton and Company

Printed in the United States of America




CONTENTS

    CHAPTER I—TOM TAKES UP RADIO
    CHAPTER II—MYSTERIOUS MESSAGES
    CHAPTER III—THE RADIO DETECTIVES
    CHAPTER IV—THE BOYS DRAW A BLANK
    CHAPTER V—THE UNDER-SEA WIRELESS
    CHAPTER VI—THE RED MENACE
    CHAPTER VII—THE CRY FROM THE DEPTHS
    CHAPTER VIII—ASTOUNDING DISCOVERIES
    CHAPTER IX—THE BATTLE BENEATH THE RIVER
    CHAPTER X—RADIO WINS
    CHAPTER XI—HENDERSON HAS AN INTERVIEW
    CHAPTER XII—THE CONFESSION
    CHAPTER XIII—RAWLINS’ PROPOSAL




THE RADIO DETECTIVES




CHAPTER I—TOM TAKES UP RADIO


“Oh, Dad! I’ve made a new set,” cried Tom, as he entered the dining
room.

“That so, Son?” replied Mr. Pauling interestedly. “Seems to me you boys
do nothing but junk your sets as fast as you make them and build others.
Does this one work better than the last?”

“It’s a peacherino!” declared Tom enthusiastically. “Just wait till you
see it and listen to the music coming in.”

“I’ll come up after dinner,” his father assured him. “Let me know when
the fun begins. I’ve some papers to go over in the library first.”

Throughout the meal the talk was all of radio, in which Tom and his boy
friends had become madly interested and in which Tom’s father and mother
had encouraged him.

“Go to it, Tom,” his father had said when the boy had glowingly
expatiated on the wonderful things he had heard on a friend’s instrument
and had asked his father’s permission to get a set. “I’m glad you’re
interested in it,” he had continued. “It’s going to be a big thing in
the future and the more you learn about it the better. But begin at the
beginning, Tom. Don’t be satisfied merely with buying instruments and
using them. Learn the whole thing from the bottom up and use your
mechanical ability to build instruments and to make improvements. Wish
they’d had something as fascinating when I was a kid.”

Tom had lost no time in availing himself of his father’s permission, and
of the roll of bills which had accompanied it, and there was no prouder
or more excited boy in Greater New York than Tom Pauling when he
triumphantly brought home his little crystal receiving set and exhibited
it to his parents.

“I can’t understand how a little box with a few nickel-plated screws and
some knobs can do all the things you say,” was his mother’s comment.
“But then,” she added, “I never could understand anything mechanical or
electrical. Even a phonograph or an electric light is all a mystery to
me.”

Mr. Pauling looked the instrument over carefully and listened
attentively to Tom’s graphic explanation of detectors, tuners,
condensers, etc.

“H-m-m,” he remarked, “I guess I’ll have to take a back seat now, Son.
You evidently have a pretty good grip on the fundamentals. Sorry I can’t
help you any, but it’s all Greek to me, I admit.”

“Oh, it’s all mighty simple,” Tom assured him. “Frank’s coming over this
afternoon and we’re going to put up the aërial and then you and mother
can hear the music and songs from Newark to-night.”

But despite the fact that Mrs. Pauling declared it the most remarkable
thing she had ever seen or heard, and his father complimented him, Tom
was far from satisfied with his first set. He didn’t like the idea of
being obliged to sit with head phones clamped to his ears in order to
hear the music from the big broadcasting stations; he felt that it was
mighty unsatisfactory for only one person to hear the sounds at one time
and he soon found that despite every effort he was continually
interrupted by calls and messages from near-by amateur stations.

Being of a naturally inventive and mechanical mind and remembering his
father’s advice to try to improve matters, he spent all his spare time
studying the radio magazines, haunting the stores where radio supplies
and instruments were sold and arguing about and discussing various
devices and sets with his boy friends. Hardly a day passed that he did
not arrive at his home carrying some mysterious package or bundle.
Accompanied by his chum Frank, from the time school was over until late
in the evening he kept himself secluded in his den while faint sounds of
hammering or of animated conversation might have been heard within.

“What’s all the mystery, Son?” his father had asked on one occasion.
“Going to spring some big invention on an unsuspecting world?”

Tom laughed. “Not quite, Dad,” he replied, “but I’m going to give you
and mother a surprise pretty soon.”

When at last all was ready and his parents were invited to Tom’s holy of
holies they were indeed surprised. Upon a small table were various
instruments and devices and a seeming tangle of wires, while, tucked
away on a bookshelf, was the little crystal set which had so recently
been Tom’s pride and joy.

And still greater was their surprise when, after busying himself over
the instruments, the faint sounds of music filled the room, coming
mysteriously from the apparent odds and ends upon the table.

“It’s all homemade,” Tom had explained proudly. “But it works. Frank and
I rigged it up just as an experiment. Now I’m going to reassemble it and
put it in a case and have a regular set.”

“Wait a minute, Tom,” his father had interrupted. “You’ll have to
explain a bit. If that lot of stuff can give so much better results than
the set you bought, why didn’t you make it in the first place, and
what’s the difference anyway?”

“Well, you see, Dad,” Tom tried to explain, “I had to start at the
bottom as you said and a crystal set’s the bottom. This is a vacuum tube
set. Those things like little electric lights are the tubes and they’re
the heart of the whole thing, and I’ve a one-step amplifier and that has
to have another tube. I didn’t have enough pocket money to buy
everything so Frank lent me some of his. You see it’s this way——”

“Never mind about the technicalities,” laughed his father. “As I said
before, go to it. Get what you need and keep busy. It’s a fine thing for
you boys. Now turn her on again, or whatever you call it, and let’s hear
some more music.”

From that time, Tom’s progress was rapid although, as his father had
jokingly remarked, the boy’s chief occupation appeared to be building
sets one day only to tear them down and reconstruct them the next.

Tom’s room had assumed the appearance of an electrical supply shop.
Tools, wire, sheet brass, bakelite, hard rubber knobs, odds and ends of
metal, coils and countless other things had taken the places of books,
skates, baseball bats and papers, and the fiction magazines had given
way to radio periodicals, blue prints and diagrams. Mrs. Pauling was in
despair and complained to her husband that Tom was making a dreadful
mess of his room and expressed fears that he might get hurt fooling with
electricity.

“Don’t you fret over that,” her husband had advised. “Tom and his
friends are having the time of their lives. As long as they are learning
something of value, what does it matter if they do keep his room in a
mess? Besides, it’s clean dirt you know—and it’s orderly disorder if you
know what I mean. They’re exploring a new world and haven’t time to look
after such trifles as having a place for everything and everything in
its place. That will come later. Just now they are fired with the zeal
and enthusiasm of great inventors and scientists. We mustn’t interfere
with them—such feelings come to human beings but once in a lifetime. I
consider this radio craze the best thing for boys that ever occurred. It
gives them an interest, it’s educational, it keeps them off the street
and occupies their brains and hands at the same time. Do you know, if I
didn’t have my time so fully occupied, I believe I’d get bitten by the
bug myself. Besides, they may really discover something worth while. I
was talking to Henderson of our staff to-day—he had charge of our radio
work during the war—and he tells me some of the best inventions in radio
have been made by amateurs—quite by accident too. I expect Tom knows
that and that’s what makes the kids so keen on the subject—it’s a
wonderful thought to feel you may stumble on some little thing that will
revolutionize a great science at any moment.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Fred,” agreed Tom’s mother resignedly.
“But I do wish it were possible to have boys amuse themselves without
tracking shavings all over the halls and burning holes in their clothes
and having grimy fingers.”

But Tom’s mother need not have worried. Gradually order came out of
chaos. As the boys progressed, they found that the accumulation of odds
and ends and the disorder interfered with their work; many experimental
instruments and devices had been discarded and were now tossed into a
junk box in the closet; a neat work table with the tools handily
arranged had been rigged up and Tom and Frank had developed a
well-equipped and orderly little workshop with the completed instruments
on an improvised bench under the window.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Pauling had noticed the gradual improvement, as from
time to time they had been summoned by Tom to witness demonstrations of
the latest products of the boys’ brains and hands, and both parents
congratulated the boys on their handiwork and the strides they had made.
So, on the night when Tom had assured his father that his latest set was
a “peacherino,” the two grownups entered a room which, as Mr. Pauling
expressed it, reminded him of a wireless on a ship.

And then, after Tom with the glowing eyes and flushed face of an
inventor and the pride of a showman, had exhibited his latest
achievement and had explained its mysteries in terms which were utterly
unintelligible to his parents, they sat spellbound as the strains of a
military band fairly filled the room.

“Fine!” declared Mr. Pauling when the concert ended. “You have got a
‘peacherino’ as you call it.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” declared Tom deprecatingly. “I can get Pittsburgh
and I can get spark messages from Cuba and Canada, and last night I
picked up a message from Balboa. I’ll hear England and France before I’m
satisfied.”

“Bully!” exclaimed his father. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’m off to Cuba
and the Bahamas, Monday, you know. I’ll radio from the ship on the way
down and after I get there you can see if you can pick up my messages
direct and can talk back.”

“Oh, I can’t do that, yet,” declared Tom. “I haven’t a sending set. You
have to get a license for that, but I’m going to get at it right away.
It will be fine to be able to hear you. I’ll bet I can get your messages
from Cuba and Nassau. Say, it will be almost like hearing you talk.”

“How shall I address them?” chuckled his father. “Tom Pauling, The Air?”

“Gee! I hadn’t thought of that,” ejaculated Tom. “I haven’t any call
letters—only sending stations have them—I’ve got it! When you send a
message, just address it as if it were a regular message and then I’ll
know it’s for me. And send them the same time every time—then I’ll be
sure to be here and waiting to get them.”

“Righto,” agreed his father. “I’ll be sending a good many official
messages, I expect, and I can get them all off together each day—say
7:45. How will that be?”

“That’ll be fine,” assented Tom. “I’ll be here at half-past seven every
night listening. Say, Dad, do you suppose those smuggler fellows use
radio?”

“Why, I don’t know; what made you ask?”

“Oh, I just happened to think of it,” replied Tom. “I guess your
speaking of sending official messages and starting for Cuba and the
Bahamas just put it in my head.”

“Well, if we don’t find how they’re getting liquor into the States by
wholesale pretty quick, I’ll begin to think they’re sending the booze in
by radio,” laughed Mr. Pauling. “It’s the most mysterious thing we’ve
been up against yet. Can’t get a clue. Perhaps they are using radio to
warn one another, or maybe they’re onto our codes. Suppose you keep
track of any odd messages you hear, Tom. I don’t suppose there’s
anything in it, but it will give you another interest and one never
knows what may happen through chance or accident. Remember that coup I
told you about that we made during the war—that meaningless message that
passed all the censors and that, by pure accident, led to the capture of
the worst lot of German plotters in the country?”

But Frank had not heard the story and so, from radio, the conversation
drifted to Mr. Pauling’s experiences as an officer of the Department of
Justice during the war and from that to his present problem of tracing
to its source the mysterious influx of liquor which was flooding New
York and other ports despite every effort of the government to stop it.

It was on this work that he was leaving for the West Indies, and long
after he and Mrs. Pauling had left the room, Tom and Frank remained,
talking earnestly, and with boyish imagination discussing the
possibilities of aiding the government through picking up some stray
information from the air by means of their instruments.

“We ought to have better sets,” declared Tom. “These are all right for
getting the broadcasted entertainments and spark signals, but we can’t
get the long waves from the big stations. And we don’t always get
farther than Arlington or Pittsburgh with this. Last night, we heard
Balboa, but the night before that we couldn’t get Havana. If we’re going
to hear Dad from Nassau or Cuba we want a set we can depend upon.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” replied Frank. “Let’s put everything that
we both have together and have a fine set here in your room. I’ll bring
my stuff down and we can work together—have duplicate sets and
everything—and I’ll just keep that little old set of mine so I can use
it when I happen to be home.”

“That’s a good idea,” agreed Tom, “Dad’s so interested in our work I can
spend a lot more money on instruments and he won’t mind and school will
soon be over and we can devote all our time to it. Gosh, I bet we have
the best sets of any boys in the whole of New York! Say, won’t it be
great when we can hear messages from England and Germany and France?”

“Yes, and we want to get busy on a sending set too. It’s twice as much
fun when we can talk to others as well as hear them. And say! my folks
are going to Europe next month. If your mother and father don’t mind I
could stay here with you.”

“That’s bully! Of course mother won’t mind and Dad will be glad to have
you,” declared Tom. “We’re not going any place this summer and so we can
give all our vacation to radio. Say, we may make some big discovery or
invention. I was reading the other day about how many things there are
to be done in radio yet and the fellow that wrote it said he believed
some of the big things would be discovered by boys or beginners
accidentally.”

Mrs. Pauling was very glad to have Frank plan to stay with Tom while his
parents were absent and for several days the two boys were busy packing
up Frank’s radio outfits and carrying them to Tom’s house.

When at last everything was there the boys had a veritable treasure
trove of materials, for Frank had not been stinted in the amount he
could spend on good tools, supplies and instruments and, while he did
not possess the mechanical or inventive ability of Tom, yet he was a
very careful and painstaking worker and everything he had was of the
best.

Tom, on the other hand, preferred to make everything himself and,
although his father was willing to let him have any sum within reason to
carry on his radio work, he spent most of the money for tools and
supplies and had built a number of special instruments which even Frank
admitted were big improvements over ready-made devices. In addition, he
had a very complete library of radio books as well as scrapbooks filled
with clippings from the radio columns of the various newspapers and
periodicals. Hence the two boys made most excellent partners for
carrying on their experiments and building their sets. Fortunately, too,
they were not the type of boys who soon become tired of a subject and
take up one fad after another and, while they were both strong,
red-blooded, out-of-door boys, always ready for the most strenuous
games, long hikes or hunting and fishing, they found radio so much more
fascinating than football, baseball or other sports that practically
everything else had been abandoned.




CHAPTER II

MYSTERIOUS MESSAGES


For the next few days the boys were very busy perfecting their
instruments and, when Mr. Pauling bade Tom and his mother good-by and
sailed southward, Tom assured him that he would be able to pick up any
messages he sent.

“Maybe I’ll surprise you by sending a message,” he declared. “I’m going
to apply for a license next week and make a sending set. Of course it
won’t be able to send clear to Cuba or Nassau, but freak messages _do_
go long distances sometimes and anyway, I can get in touch with your
ship before you reach port coming back.”

“Great!” exclaimed his father heartily. “And don’t forget about stray
messages—you may help us out yet. I spoke to Henderson about your idea
that the bootleggers were using radio and he says he should not be a bit
surprised. They’re right up to date in their methods, you know.”

That evening, Tom and Frank hurried to their sets promptly at 7:30
accompanied by Mrs. Pauling who seemed as interested as the boys in the
result of their first attempt to pick up a message intended for them.
She was rather disappointed, however, when Tom clamped on his phones and
told her she wouldn’t be able to hear anything.

“You see,” he explained, “if the message comes in, it will be just code
signal—dots and dashes in International Morse—and wouldn’t mean anything
to you and I might miss it if I used the loud speaker.”

Slowly the minutes slipped by. From out of the silent air came various
sounds to the boys’ impatient ears—little buzzing dots and dashes from
local stations; the faint sounds of a phonograph from some amateur’s
radiophone; fragments of speech from a broadcasting station. Carefully
the two waiting, expectant boys tuned their instruments, for they had
taken the precaution of asking the wireless operator on the ship what
wave length he used and with their sets tuned as nearly to this as
possible they cut out the amateur senders with their short wave lengths
and the broadcasting stations with their evening entertainments on 360
meter waves and heard only the meaningless or uninteresting Morse
messages passing from ships to shore or vice versa.

Over and over Tom and Frank glanced anxiously at the little
nickel-plated clock ticking merrily on its shelf, until at last the
hands pointed to 7:45 and the boys fairly thrilled with excitement.
Would they hear the message from the speeding ship? Would they pick up
that one message that they were expecting? Would they, in a moment more,
be listening to the dots and dashes that represented Mr. Pauling’s
words? Neither boy was yet expert at reading Morse if sent rapidly, but
the wireless man aboard the _Havana_ had laughingly agreed to send Mr.
Pauling’s messages slowly and the boys were not worried on that score.

Suddenly, to Tom’s ears, came a sharp buzz—faint and blurred, and with
trembling fingers he tuned his set, adjusted the variable condenser and
as the short, staccato sounds grew sharp, loud and clear he knew that
the long-hoped-for message was coming to his ears. “Dah, dah dah dah,
dah dah, dee dah dah dee, dee dah, dee dee dah, dee dah dee dee, dee
dee, dah dee, dah dah dee,” came the dots and dashes, sent slowly as if
by an amateur and mentally Tom translated them. Yes, there was no doubt
of it, TOM PAULING were the words the dots and dashes spelled and Tom’s
heart beat a trifle faster and his face flushed with excitement as he
heard his own name coming out of space and realized that, across a
hundred miles and more of tossing sea, his father was talking to him and
steadily he jotted down the letters as they buzzed in dots and dashes
through the air from the distant ship.

“Hurrah!” he fairly yelled, as with the final “dee dah dee dah dee” the
operator signified that the message was finished. “Hurrah! I got it.
See, here ’tis, Mother!”

Frank also had received the message on his set and the two compared the
letters they had written down.

“Of course we made some mistakes,” explained Tom as his mother puzzled
over the unpunctuated, apparently meaningless letters. “See,” he
continued, “you have to separate the letters into words and sentences
and this one should be an “N” instead of an “A” and I guess this is a
“D” instead of a “B,” Frank’s got it that way. One’s a dash and three
dots and the other’s a dash and two dots.”

As he spoke, Tom was busily copying the letters and forming words and
presently showed his mother the finished message. “That’s it,” he
announced proudly. “Just think of Dad talking to us—and he’ll do it
every night all the way down and after he gets there. Gosh! It’s funny
to think we can hear from him that way. Say, isn’t radio great?”

“But I thought you could hear him talking,” said his mother in rather
disappointed tones. “He could send messages that way by the regular
radio companies or by cable.”

“Of course he could,” agreed Tom somewhat disturbed because his mother
was not more enthusiastic over his achievement. “But you see the fun is
in getting it ourselves this way. It wouldn’t be any sport to have the
messages brought in an envelope like ordinary telegrams. Gee! I just
wish we could hear him talk over the phones. Some of the ships have
talked with the shore farther away than he is, but I guess the
_Havana’s_ radio isn’t up-to-date.”

“I think it’s fine and splendid of you boys to be able to do this,”
declared his mother. “What I meant was, that I had expected to hear your
father’s voice and I really _was_ disappointed when I found it was so
different.”

“Well, I’m going to fix a set to talk back to him,” said Tom. “And just
as soon as I get the sending set done we’ll get to work and make a
better receiving set, won’t we, Frank?”

“You bet!” agreed Frank. “Perhaps by the time your father is on the way
back we can really talk to him.”

“Now let’s have some music,” suggested Tom, and for the next hour they
all listened to the broadcasting station’s program as the loud speaker
filled the room with the sounds of music, singing, speeches and news.

For the next three nights the two boys picked up Mr. Pauling’s messages
regularly and were as proud as peacocks when they managed to get the
first message from Havana telling of his safe arrival in Cuba. And by
their enthusiastic studies and the practice they gained by deciphering
the messages, the boys were successful in passing the required
examination and proudly exhibited their license to maintain and operate
a sending station.

It was a red letter day in their lives when they at last had the
transmitting set in working order and flashed a message into the night,
to have it promptly answered by an unknown boy in Garden City. Each
night, too, they sent out messages directed to their father in the vain
hope that, by some chance or by the same mysterious combination of
conditions which had wafted other messages to vast distances beyond the
range of the instruments, their words might be picked up in Havana or
Nassau; but no reply came and at last they gave up in despair.

Then, their sending set being no longer a novelty, the boys set
diligently to work on other matters and worked early and late.

“What on earth is that?” asked Tom’s mother, when finally the new
idea had assumed concrete form and she was invited to witness a
demonstration. “It looks like some sort of a huge birdcage,” she
continued as she seated herself and glanced at the wooden framework
wound with wire that stood on a small table.

“Well, I don’t suppose you can understand,” replied Tom, with the
superior air of one who is master of an art beyond ordinary
comprehension, “but I’ll try to explain. That’s a loop aërial.”

“But I thought the aërial was that wire clothesline-like affair on the
roof,” objected Mrs. Pauling. “You see,” she laughed, “I _am_ beginning
to learn a little.”

Tom grinned, “Oh, yes, that’s an aërial, too,” he replied. “But this is
another kind. With this we don’t need any ground or lead-ins or
lightning switches. And it’s directional too. That is,” he hastened to
explain, “by turning it one way or another we can pick up signals from
certain directions and not from others. Some people call them compass
aërials and they’re used on ships for locating other vessels or for
finding their way. And besides, they cut out a lot of static.”

“Now please, Tom, what _is_ all this you’re talking about? What _is_
static?”

“Well that’s mighty hard to explain,” said Tom, scratching his head
reflectively. “It’s a sort of electricity in the air—lots of it around
when there are thunderstorms and lightning.”

“Lightning!” exclaimed his mother. “Do be careful, fooling with all
these things, Tom. I’m always afraid you’ll get a fearful shock or
something.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Tom. “Static doesn’t hurt any one and lightning
won’t do any harm. An aërial is just like a lightning-rod and if it’s
struck the lightning is just carried down to the ground harmlessly; but
this loop aërial’s different. Now let’s hear how it works.”

Adjusting the instruments and attaching the loud-speaker, Tom slowly
turned the cagelike affair about and suddenly, as it faced the west, the
sounds of music burst out from the horn.

“There ’tis!” cried Tom, exultantly. “That’s Newark. Now, see here.” As
he spoke, he swung the loop aërial to one side, and instantly, the music
died out. “Now, listen carefully,” he continued and turned the loop
slowly around until, somewhat fainter, the sounds of a human voice came
from the loud-speaker. “That’s Pittsburgh,” declared Tom. “Now you see
how it works. If it’s turned towards Newark we get Newark and if towards
Pittsburgh we get that.”

“Yes, it’s all very interesting,” admitted his mother. “But what
advantage is it? You used to hear both Newark and Pittsburgh with the
aërial on the roof.”

“Oh, it’s no advantage for ordinary work,” replied Tom. “But it’s a fine
thing in some ways. Now, for instance, if we heard a fellow’s message
and didn’t know where it came from we could tell by turning this back
and forth until we got his direction. Then, if we wanted to locate him
exactly, we could put it up somewhere else and in that way we could find
out just where he was. Frank and I have a particular scheme in hand, but
that’s a secret and I’m not ready to tell it yet.”

His mother laughed. “I’m not a bit curious,” she declared. “I suppose
some day I’ll wake up to find you two boys have astonished the world.”

But had Frank and Tom told Mrs. Pauling what their secret was she would
have been both curious and surprised. Several times within the preceding
weeks the boys, listening at their instruments, had received messages
which they could not locate. At first they had given no heed to these,
thinking they were merely from some amateur, but when, after repeated
requests for the unknown’s call letters, no answer was received and the
messages abruptly ceased, the two boys began to be curious.

“There’s something mighty funny about him,” declared Frank. “Every time
we answer him or ask a question he shuts up like a clam. Say, Tom, maybe
he’s a crook or a bootlegger.”

“More likely some amateur sending without a license and afraid the
government inspector will get after him,” suggested Tom. “But I _would_
like to find out who it is.”

A few days later Frank, who was poring over the latest issue of a radio
magazine, uttered an exclamation. “Gosh! here’s the scheme,” he cried.
“Now we can find out who that mysterious chap is.”

“What’s the big idea?” queried Tom, who was busy making a new
vario-coupler.

“Loop aërial,” replied his chum. “Here’s an article all about it. It
says they’re used aboard ships to find the location of other vessels and
are called compass aërials.”

Tom dropped his work and hurried to Frank’s side.

“Well,” he remarked, after a few moments’ study of the article and the
diagrams, “I don’t see how that would work in our case. It says one ship
can find another or can work its way into port by using the loop aërial
like a compass, but the trouble is the ship’s moving and so the thing
will work, but we can’t go running around New York City or the state
with a set in one hand and a big loop aërial in the other.”

“No,” admitted Frank rather regretfully, “but we can tell in which
direction his station is.”

“Yes, and it will be fun to make one and experiment with it,” agreed
Tom, “especially as the article says the thing cuts out static and
interferences and it’s getting on towards warm weather now when the air
will be full of static.”

“Well, let’s make one then,” suggested Frank.

As a result, the boys had constructed their loop aërial and a special
set to go with it and the very first time they tested the odd affair
they were overjoyed at the result. Again they had picked up the messages
which had aroused their curiosity and, by turning the loop one way and
then another, they were soon convinced that the sender had a station to
the southeast of their own.

“Well, that’s settled,” announced Tom, “and the only things southeast of
here are the East Side, the river and Brooklyn. That fellow is not far
away—he’s using a very short wave and his messages are strong. I’ll bet
he’s right here in New York.”

“I guess you’re right,” agreed Frank, “but that doesn’t do much good.
There’s an awful lot of the city southeast from here.”

“Sure there is,” said Tom, “but, after all, what do we care. I still
think he’s just some unlicensed chap—probably some kid over on the East
Side who can’t pass an examination or get a license and is just having a
little fun on the quiet.”

This conversation took place two days before Tom received his father’s
message telling of his safe arrival in Cuba and no more messages from
the mysterious stranger were heard until the day after Mr. Pauling’s
message had been received.

Then, as Tom was listening at the loop aërial set and idly turned the
aërial about, he again picked up the well-known short-wave messages.
Heretofore the messages had been meaningless sentences in code, dots and
dashes which the boys out of curiosity had jotted down only to find them
devoid of any interest—items regarding shipping which Tom had declared
had been culled from the daily shipping lists and were being sent merely
for practice—and so now, from mere habit, Tom wrote down the letters as
they came to him over the instruments. Suddenly he uttered a surprised
whistle.

“Gee Whittaker!” he exclaimed in low tones. “Come here, Frank.”

The other hurried to him and as he glanced at the pad on the table
beside Tom he too gave an ejaculation of surprise. The letters which Tom
had jotted down were as follows: LEAR P IN HAVANA ARRIVED YESTERDAY GET
BUSY.

“They _are_ rum runners!” cried Tom as the signals ceased.

“Gosh, I believe they are!” agreed Frank. “But of course,” he added, “it
may not mean your father by ‘P’ and we don’t know the first part of the
message. Maybe they were just talking about a ship—that ‘lear’ might
have been something about a ship clearing for some place.”

“You _are_ a funny one,” declared Tom. “Here you’ve been insisting all
along that there was some deep mystery or plot behind these messages and
I’ve said it was just some amateur and nothing to it and now, just as
soon as we get a message which really means something, you shift around
and say it’s only about some boat.”

“Well, if it’s anything secret why do they talk plain English?” asked
Frank. “That’s what makes me change my views. When they were sending
things that sounded like nonsense I thought they might be code messages,
but now that they send things that are so plain it doesn’t seem
mysterious.”

“Yes, there’s sense in that argument, I admit,” replied Tom. “But
perhaps there was just as much sense in the others—if they _are_
bootleggers. Of course as you say, they may not mean anything about Dad,
but it would be a mighty funny coincidence if any one or anything else
beginning with ‘P’ arrived in Havana yesterday and it happened to come
in with this message and with a ‘get busy’ after it. I’ll bet you,
Frank, they’re smugglers and that’s a message to some boat or something
that the coast’s clear and to unload their stuff. Let’s go down and tell
Mr. Henderson about it.”

“No,” Frank advised. “He’d probably laugh at us and it wouldn’t be any
use to him anyhow. We’ll keep the message and all others we hear and if
anything else is going on we’ll get some more messages, you can bet. And
I’ve a scheme, Tom. I know a fellow down at Gramercy Park and we can go
down there and set up a loop aërial and see if this chap that’s talking
is still southeast of there.”

“That’s a bully scheme!” cried Tom with enthusiasm. “We can turn radio
detectives—that’ll be great! And if we find he’s north or west or east
of Gramercy Square we can try some other place. Probably your friend
knows fellows who have sets all around that part of the city.”

The next day they visited Frank’s friend and after making him promise
secrecy they divulged a part of their plan, omitting, at Tom’s
suggestion, any reference to their suspicions of the messages coming
from a gang of bootleggers. Henry fell in readily with the idea of
locating the messages, which he had also heard repeatedly, and was
deeply interested in the loop aërial. He had an excellent set and
numerous instruments and supplies and the three boys soon rigged up a
compass set in Henry’s home.

“Now, you listen with this and try to pick him up,” instructed Frank.
“Keep turning the aërial about in this way and, as soon as you hear him,
write down what he says. We’ll listen too, whenever we have a chance,
and will let you know. Then, if you haven’t picked him up, you can turn
the loop until you do. Too bad you haven’t a sending set so you could
tell us.”

“But he’ll hear you and quit,” objected Henry, “and how can I hear you
if I don’t happen to have the loop pointed your way or am listening to
this fellow?”

Frank looked puzzled. “Gee!” he ejaculated, “I hadn’t thought of that.

“Oh, that’s easy,” declared Tom. “You’ll hear us over the other set with
the loud-speaker you have. That works with a regular aërial and is
entirely separate from this set. And we’ll arrange a code so he won’t
know what we’re talking about. Let’s see, I guess we’d better use the
phone and not send dot and dash, we’ll just say ‘we’ve got the message’
and you’ll know what it means.”

“No, that’s no good,” declared Frank. “That’s not a bit mysterious or
exciting. We’re radio detectives, you know. We must have something like
a password or code or something. Say, let’s begin with ‘loop,’ then
Henry’ll know we mean him. We’ll say ‘loop, be ready to receive.’”

“Yes, and have him know something’s wrong when we don’t begin to send
anything,” said Tom.

“I have it!” exclaimed Henry, “Say, ‘loop, coming over,’ and then any
one’ll think you are telling me you are coming over here. But say,
how’ll I get your message if I don’t sit at my set and tune to you?”

“That’s easy,” said Frank. “Just as soon as we get home to Tom’s we’ll
begin to send and you listen and tune until you get us good and loud and
then mark your knobs so you can set ’em whenever you want to hear us.
Then ring us by regular phone and tell us it’s O. K.”

Thus, all being arranged, Tom and Frank went up town and as soon as they
reached Tom’s room began to send calls for Henry as they had agreed.
Very soon the telephone bell rang and Tom ran to the instrument.

“It’s all right, Frank,” he announced as he returned to the room. “Henry
says he got our calls finely and has marked his knobs. He’s going to
turn them about and then set them back at the marks and we’re to call
him again. Then if he gets us right off he’ll know he won’t miss us next
time.”

When, a few minutes later, the phone rang again and Henry told Tom that
the message had come in on the adjusted set the boys felt sure that
their fellow conspirator would not miss any calls they might send him.
So, having nothing else to do, they worked at another step of
amplification for their new set, and listened for any signals or
messages that might come in from the person whom they were endeavoring
to trail by means of radio.

Evidently, however, the mysterious stranger had no business to transact
and no message from him was received. When at last they were obliged to
leave for dinner they phoned to Henry who reported that he had been
listening all the afternoon, but had heard nothing.

“We’ll get at it again to-night,” said Tom. “Most of the messages we’ve
heard come in just when the broadcasting stations are giving their
concerts. I’d bet he takes that time so nobody will hear him, or pay
attention to him. If they’re all tuned to 360 meters they’d never know
he was talking, you see, and if they just chanced to hear him they’d be
too busy with the music to bother with him.”

As Tom had suspected, the mysterious messages did come in that night and
so interesting and exciting did they prove to the boys’ imaginative and
suspicious minds that they were thankful they had foregone the pleasure
of hearing the concert on the chance of the supposed smugglers talking.




CHAPTER III

THE RADIO DETECTIVES


The instant the boys recognized the long-awaited signals, Frank called
Henry and notified him as agreed and, to their delight and satisfaction,
the mysterious stranger continued to talk, evidently paying no heed to
the seemingly innocent words of the boys, if indeed he had heard them.

As heretofore, much that was said meant nothing to the boys, but wisely
they jotted every thing down nevertheless. However, both Tom and Frank
were more puzzled than ever, for now that their minds were concentrated
on the messages they suddenly realized that a true conversation, an
interchange of messages, was going on, but, for some inexplicable
reason, they could hear but one of the speakers. It was like listening
to one individual talking to another over an ordinary telephone and the
boys could merely guess at the words of the inaudible speaker.

“Yes, it’s all right,” came the words on the easily recognized short
waves, “thirty-eight fifty seventy-seven; yes, that’s it. Still there.
Gave them the ha, ha! Azalia. Can’t get anything on her. How about
Colon? French Islands? Sure, they’re just about crazy. No, no fear of
that. Good stuff. No, no rough stuff. Expect her at same place about the
tenth. No, don’t hang around. Cleared the third. Fifteen seconds west.
I’ll tell him. Good bottom. Good luck! Don’t worry, we’ll see to that.
No risk. So long!”

As the conversation ceased Tom jumped up. “Gee!” he exclaimed. “That’s
the most we’ve heard yet. I wonder if Henry got it.”

Hurrying to the telephone, he was about to call Henry when the bell
tinkled. “Hello!”—came the greeting in Henry’s voice as Tom took down
the receiver. “This is Henry. Say, did you get it?”

“You bet we did!” Tom assured him gleefully. “What did you make out? No,
guess you’d better not tell over the phone. We’ll be down there right
away.”

“He’s east of here,” declared Henry, when Tom and Frank reached his
home.

“Golly, he must be in Brooklyn or out on the river!” exclaimed Tom.
“What did you make out that he said?”

Henry showed them the message as he had jotted it down and which, with
the exception of one or two words, was identical with what they had
heard.

“I couldn’t catch some of the words,” explained Henry. “There was a
funny sort of noise—like some one talking through a comb with paper on
it,—the way we used to do when we were little kids—say, what’s it all
about anyway?”

“We don’t know,” replied Frank. “Did you hear any one else talking or
anything?”

“And, Henry, were the sounds weak or faint to you?” put in Tom.

“Only that queer sound I told you about. The words were fine and strong
here.”

“Then he’s nearer here than he is to us,” announced Tom. “But I would
like to know who the other fellow was and what he said and why the
dickens we can’t hear him when we hear this chap. Couldn’t you make out
any of the words that the fellow said—those that sounded like talking
through a comb, I mean?”

“No, they were just a sort of buzzy mumble,” replied Henry.

“Well if he’s east of here it ought to be easy to locate him,” remarked
Frank. “Do you know any fellows around here who have sets, Henry?”

“Sure there are lots of ’em,” Henry assured him. “Tom Fleming over at
Bellevue has a dandy set and there’s ‘Pink’ Bradley down on 19th St.,
and Billy Fletcher up on Lexington Ave., and a whole crowd I don’t
know.”

“Well, let’s try it out at Fleming’s place next, then,” cried Frank. “Do
you s’pose you can see him to-morrow and tell him the scheme? And say,
ask him if he’s heard the same talk.”

“I can phone over to him now—I guess he’s home,” said Henry, “but what’s
back of all this? You fellows aren’t so keen just because you want to
locate this fellow that’s been talking, I’ll bet.”

Tom hesitated, but in a moment his mind was made up.

“I suppose we might just as well tell you,” he said at last. “But it’s a
secret and you’ll have to promise not to tell any one else.”

Henry readily agreed and Tom and Frank told him all they knew and what
they suspected.

“Whew!” ejaculated Henry. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re right. I
couldn’t see any sense to all that talk about boats and the West Indies
and numbers, but I can now. I’ll bet those numbers were places out at
sea—fifteen seconds west—and ‘Azalia’ may be the name of the ship. Say,
won’t it be bully if we can find out something—radio detectives—Gee,
that’s great!”

“Well, go on and call up Fleming,” said Frank. “Tell him to come over
here.”

“He’s on the way now,” Henry announced when he returned to the room.
“Are you fellows going to let him in on the bootlegger stuff?”

“Better not,” advised Tom. “If he’s heard the fellow talking we can tell
him we’re just anxious to locate him. We can make a mystery out of not
hearing the person that was talking back, you know.”

“It’s a mystery all right enough,” put in Frank. “If that other chap can
hear him, why can’t we? There’s something mighty queer about it.”

“Search me,” replied Tom laconically. “Maybe he talks on a different
wave length.”

“I never thought of that,” admitted Frank. “Say, next time they’re
talking one of us will listen while the other tunes to try and pick up
the other man.”

“And perhaps he’s in a different direction,” suggested Henry. “If he is
of course we wouldn’t hear him with our loops pointed towards this
fellow.”

“Of course!” agreed Tom. “We _have_ been boobs. Just as like as not the
one we didn’t hear is over to the west or the north and we were all
listening to the southeast. Say, you’ve got sense, old man. Next time we
hear this chap we’ll nab the other one, I bet. Hello! There’s the bell.”

Henry hurried from the room and returned presently, accompanied by
another boy whom he introduced as Jim Fleming. Jim was undersized and
round-shouldered with damp, reddish hair and big blue eyes behind
horn-rimmed glasses. He had a most disconcerting manner of staring at
one and constantly blinking and gulping—like a dying fish Frank declared
later—and his hands and wrists seemed far too long for his sleeves. He
was such a queer, gawky-looking chap that the boys could scarcely resist
laughing, but before they had talked with him five minutes they had
taken a great fancy to him and found he knew a lot about radio.

While the boys told him of their interest in the strange conversations,
he stood listening, his long arms dangling at his sides, his big eyes
blinking and his half-open mouth gulping spasmodically until Tom became
absolutely fascinated watching him.

Mentally, Frank and Tom had dubbed him a “freak,” a “simp,” a “bookworm”
and half a dozen far from complimentary names and they had expected to
hear him speak “like a professor,” as Tom would have expressed it.
Instead he uttered a yell like a wild Indian, danced an impromptu jig
and to the boys’ amazement exclaimed:

“Hully Gee! So youse’s onto that boid too! Say, fellers, isn’t he the
candy kid though? Spielin’ on that flapper wave an’ cannin’ his gab if
youse ask his call. Say, that boid oughter be up to the flooey ward—he’s
bughouse I’ll say, with all his ship talk and numbers jazzed up an’
chinnin’ to himself. Say, did youse ever hear a bloke talkin’ to him?”

“No, we never did,” replied Tom. “Did you?”

“Nix!” answered Jim. “That’s why I say he’s got rats in his
garret—flooey I’ll say—” Then, suddenly dropping his slangy East Side
expressions, he continued: “Say, he’s had me guessing, too. But I can
tell you one thing. He’s west of my place—I’m over at Bellevue, you
know—Dad’s stationed there—and that’ll bring him somewhere between East
27th St. and Gramercy Square.”

“But, how on earth do you know that?” queried Tom in surprise.

Jim grinned and blinked.

“Same way you found out he was east of here,” he replied. “You needn’t
think you fellows have got any patent on a loop, I’ve been usin’ one for
six months. Ed—he’s my brother—is ‘Sparks’ on a big liner and showed me
about it. But honest, if that fellow isn’t crazy an’ talkin’ to himself,
why don’t we get the other guy sometimes?”

“That’s the mystery to us,” said Frank. “We decided just before you came
in that the other fellow must be sending on a different wave length or
else was in some other direction. We were just planning to pick him up
by one of us tuning and turning the loop while the others listened to
this fellow, but if you hear this man west of your place that knocks one
of our theories out. If the other chap was west you’d get him, too.”

“Yep, and ’tisn’t because he’s on a different length,” declared Jim.
“Hully Gee, I’ve tuned everywhere from 1500 meters down trying to get
him, and nothin’ doin’.”

“Didn’t you ever hear a funny sound like talking through a comb with
paper on it?” asked Henry.

“Sure, sometimes I do,” admitted Jim, “but you can’t bring it in as
chatter—I put it down to induction or somethin’—but Gee, come to think
of it, it always does come in just right between this looney’s
sentences.”

“I’ll bet ’tis the other fellow,” declared Henry. “Only if ’tis he’s got
an awful wheeze in his throat or his transmitter’s cracked.”

“Well, let’s drop that and plan how we can locate this fellow we do
hear,” suggested Frank.

“Yes, now we know he’s between your place and here we ought to find some
place where we can set up a loop to the north and south,” said Tom.

“Sure, we can fix that,” declared Jim. “I’ve got a cousin that lives
over on 23d St. and there’s a good scout named Lathrop over on 26th. We
can take sets to their places and put ’em up. They haven’t anything but
crystal sets, and most likely they’ll know other guys and by trying out
at different places we can spot his hangout all right. But say, what are
you fellows so keen about findin’ him for?”

“Oh, nothing except the fun of it,” replied Tom, trying to act and speak
in a casual manner. “You see we’re just experimenting to find out what
we can do with loop aërials—call ourselves radio detectives—and we
picked on this fellow because his messages seemed sort of mysterious and
are so easily recognized.”

“Yea, I understand,” said Jim. “Say that’s a lulu of an idea—radio
detectives. Well, I’ll bet we can detect this bughousey guy O. K.”

It was soon arranged that Jim was to see his cousin and that one of the
boys’ loops would be set up in his home the following evening and that,
while Jim and Frank listened there, Henry and Tom would be at their sets
and would call out as soon as they heard the messages from the
mysterious speaker. All was arranged, but to the boys’ intense chagrin
not a sound came to any of them which remotely resembled the well-known
voice and short wave lengths of the man they were striving to locate.
But they were not discouraged, for they knew from past experience that
they could not expect to hear him every night.

The following day was Saturday and the boys devoted their holiday to
putting up a set in Lathrop’s home. They now had four loop aërial sets
ready to receive and located within a comparatively small area. They
were sure that the station they were trying to find was within the few
blocks between 20th and 27th Sts., but they were not at all sure whether
it would be found to the east or west of Third Avenue. Moreover, as Jim
pointed out, for all they knew he might be on 27th St. or 20th St. or
even slightly north or south of one or the other, for he stated that his
brother had told him that when close to a sending station the loop
aërial could not be depended upon to give very accurate directions and
that only by taking cross bearings could a certain point be definitely
located. This was exactly what the boys had in view, to take cross
bearings, and then, by means of a map of the city, to locate the man or
the station.

It may seem as if the boys were devoting a great deal of time and
trouble to something of little importance, but they were, or at least
Tom, Frank and Henry were, thoroughly convinced that the messages
emanated from some one connected with a rum-running gang and they were
as keen on finding his location and as interested as if they had been
real detectives detailed to discover a fugitive from justice.

So on that Saturday night they sat at their various instruments, waiting
expectantly and with high hopes. No one was stationed at Tom’s home,
for, in order to provide two sets for the test, Tom’s and Frank’s had
been dismantled and reinstalled at the houses of Jim’s cousin and of
Paul Lathrop.

Henry was the first to pick up the sounds and instantly he hurried to
the telephone and called Jim. But by the time he had Jim’s number the
latter had also picked up the signals and had called the others, for Tom
had not disturbed his transmission set and ordinary phoning was the only
means of communicating with one another at the boys’ disposal. For some
time Tom, at the 23d St. house, could not pick up the sounds, but at
last, with his loop pointed to the northeast, they came clear.
“Congratulations,” was the first word he heard, instantly followed by
the queer buzzing sound which Henry had described. “Golly, ’tis just
like some one talking through a comb,” was Tom’s mental comment and
deeply interested and tremendously puzzled he strained his ears and mind
striving to formulate words or meanings from the strange sounds. Once or
twice he was sure that the sounds were words—he thought he could make
out “last night” following a query of “When was it?” from the other
speaker but, as he told the others later, it was like trying to hear
what a mosquito was saying.

So intent was he on this that he quite forgot to jot down the plain
words of the other speaker and did not realize it until the sounds
ceased and the conversation was over.

But he knew that the others would have it and he had the direction,
which was the main thing, and, a few minutes later all the boys were
together and eagerly discussing the results of their experiment.

“He’s southeast of my set!” announced Frank, when Tom had told them what
he had discovered. “That puts him in between the river front and Third
Avenue and between 23d and 26th Sts.”

“Well, we’re getting him narrowed down to a few blocks now,” said Henry
joyfully. “Say, what did you fellows make of the talk? Here’s my slip.”

The words that Henry had written down were as follows: “Everything O. K.
Yes, haven’t an idea. Sure, Fritz told me about it. Must be careful. No,
but price will drop. No use killing the goose, you know. Golden eggs is
right. Not a chance in the world of their getting wise. Nonsense, no one
else has anything like it. Amateurs. Oh, forget it. Well, let ’em guess,
guesses don’t prove anything. Well, if they did they’d never find
anything. Magnolia. Yes, same place thirty fifteen west. Oh, yes, the
French stuff went like hot cakes. Sure, get all you can. Yes she
cleared. Regards to Heinrich. Expect you the eighteenth. Don’t forget
Magnolia. Good-by.”

“It’s just the same as I made it,” announced Frank.

“Same here,” said Jim. “Sufferin’ cats! Do you mean to say that nut
isn’t bughouse now?”

“It _does_ sound a bit crazy, I admit,” replied Tom. “Say, did any of
you fellows try tuning to different wave lengths to see if any one else
came in?”

“I did,” declared Frank, “but all I got was some one who said ‘for the
love of Mike get off the air.’”

“Me, too,” chimed in Jim. “No one’s talking to him, he’s just nutty and
chins to himself.”

“Well, then, we have all the more reason for finding him,” said Tom. “If
he’s really crazy the authorities ought to know it. Now we know he’s so
close we ought to be able to locate him.”

So, day after day, the boys, their interest and enthusiasm at high pitch
owing to the success of their experiments, shifted their instruments
from house to house, gradually drawing their radio net about the
mysterious sender until they were positive that he was located in a
certain block, a district of small, old-fashioned buildings, warehouses
and garages.

But beyond this they could not go. There were no boys so far as they
knew within the area and, satisfied that they had done all they could
and that they had proved the value of their loops in locating the
unknown speaker, all but Tom, Frank and Henry lost interest and devoted
their attention to other matters.

But Tom, Frank, and, to a lesser degree, Henry were still deeply
interested in the mysterious messages and were convinced that they came
either from a gang of rum-runners or from some other law-breakers, for
while there was nothing really suspicious in the messages they could not
rid themselves of the idea, once it had entered their minds.

“I vote we go and tell Mr. Henderson all we know,” said Tom. “Dad won’t
be back for two weeks or more yet and if Mr. Henderson thinks there’s
anything in it he can have that block searched and find out who owns the
set.”

“Well, perhaps ’twould be a good plan,” admitted Frank, and accordingly
the two boys went to Mr. Henderson’s office and related the story of
their experiments and told of their suspicions.

“H-m-m,” remarked the keen-eyed man when they had ended, “this is very
interesting, boys. Let me see the notes you made.”

For a time he examined the slips of paper bearing the various messages
the boys had scribbled down and his forehead wrinkled in a frown of
perplexity.

“It’s very indefinite,” he announced at last, half to himself, “but I
agree with you that the whole matter has a suspicious appearance. Too
bad you didn’t take down the earlier messages you heard. Now, let’s see.
You say you have never heard the other party to the conversations and
yet you have been listening in within a block of this chap. Very odd,
yes, most extraordinary. There are several explanations that occur to
me, however. For example, if they wished the conversation to be secret
and unintelligible they might have arranged that one man was to talk
through an ordinary phone and the other by radio. Or they might have
arranged this because the second man had no sending set—exactly as you
boys communicated with one another with only one transmission set among
you.”

“Gee, but we _are_ dumb-bells!” exclaimed Tom. “Why the dickens didn’t
we think of that? Why we are doing the same thing ourselves. It was so
simple we overlooked it.”

Mr. Henderson smiled. “That’s often the way,” he declared. “During the
war a lot of messages passed our censors as perfectly innocent and
harmless and yet they were of the utmost importance—they were so frank
and simple we overshot the mark.”

“Yes, Dad told us about some of those,” said Tom.

“As I was saying,” went on Mr. Henderson, “if one man was talking over a
telephone you would not have heard him under ordinary conditions, but it
often happens that through capacity inductance a phone message may come
in over a radio set. That might account for your occasionally hearing
those sounds which you describe as resembling words coming through a
paper-covered comb. Do you remember the conditions under which you heard
those sounds? Were you near telephone receivers, touching any part of
your sets or doing anything unusual?”

The boys thought deeply, trying to revisualize the conditions that had
existed on the few occasions when they had heard the odd buzzing sounds.

“I’m not sure,” said Tom at last, “but it seems to me that when I heard
them the first time—that time I was on 23d St., I was sitting close to
the telephone receiver on the table—I’d just been called up by Jim
and—yes, I am sure now, I remember distinctly—I had my hand touching the
stand while I was listening to the messages. You see, I was half
inclined to phone to the others to find out if they heard the sounds and
I reached out to pick up the phone and then changed my mind—but sort of
kept my hand there.”

“Then that’s solved, I think,” declared Mr. Henderson. “If you had taken
down the phone receiver and had kept your hand upon it you would
probably have heard the other speaker’s voice plainly.”

“Gosh, why didn’t we think of that!” interrupted Frank. “And come to
think of it, the phone _is_ on the same table with the radio set at
Henry’s house.”

“Well, we’ve laid one ghost, we’ll assume,” went on Mr. Henderson, “but
that does not solve the mystery of the other speaker nor does it
eliminate the possibility that these fellows may be crooks. In our work,
you know, we always assume that every suspect is guilty until we prove
our theory wrong and so we’ll assume that your mysterious speaker is a
crook until we find we’re mistaken. However, before I take any active
steps I think it will be a good plan to try another test. Suppose you
listen in for a few nights more and, as soon as you hear this fellow,
take down your phone receivers and hold the instrument against your body
or arm and see if you get the voice of the other chap. Let me know the
results and then we can plan our next move.”

“Hurrah! Now we _are_ real radio detectives working for the government!”
cried Tom enthusiastically. “Do you really think they’re bootleggers?”

“I make it a point never to form a hard-and-fast opinion,” replied Mr.
Henderson with a smile at the boys’ excitement. “However, I should not
be in the least surprised if they are, and if so and we round them up,
Uncle Sam will have to thank you boys. Go to it, boys! Perhaps we may
have to organize a radio detective corps yet, and I’m not sure that boys
may not be able to show us old hands a few tricks at our own game.”




CHAPTER IV

THE BOYS DRAW A BLANK


Hardly had the door to Mr. Henderson’s office closed behind them before
Frank commenced to dance and caper wildly about.

“Hurrah!” he shouted. “This _is_ great! We’re real detectives and
working for Uncle Sam!”

“Yes, but don’t make such a row,” cautioned Tom. “We don’t want every
one in the place to know it and they’ll think you’re crazy. Come on,
let’s hurry and tell Henry.”

When they reached Gramercy Square and dashed into Henry’s room and told
him of their talk with Mr. Henderson, he was as excited and pleased as
Frank.

“Say, it _was_ funny we didn’t think of that fellow using a telephone!”
he exclaimed, when the boys had told him of Mr. Henderson’s theory. “And
he’s right about that capacity effect of a fellow near a phone. I _was_
a fool not to have thought of it. Why, Jim told me about that long ago.
He even said his brother Ed showed him with his set on the _San
Jacinto_. But I guess it must have been because we were so intent on the
messages that we couldn’t think of anything else. I’ll bet we can hear
folks on the phone through my set right now.”

“That _is_ funny!” declared Tom, when, a moment later, the boys were
listening to a telephone conversation coming to them through Henry’s
set. “Say,” he continued, “there isn’t much privacy nowadays, is there?
Why, if you could amplify that enough, every one could hear everything
that was going on over the telephones.”

“Yes, and to think we were so close to getting that other chap’s talk
and never realized it,” said Frank. “Mr. Henderson must think we are
great radio fans! I’ll bet he had a mighty good laugh at our expense
after we left.”

“Well, we’ll not be fooled again,” declared Tom. “If that fellow begins
talking to-night we’ll nail him, too.”

“But we can’t locate him,” objected Henry. “So what good will it do?”

“That’s so,” admitted Tom. “But the main thing is to hear what he says.
Then perhaps we can make sense out of it.”

“Say,” suddenly exclaimed Henry, “did you fellows notice that every time
we heard those messages the fellow mentioned a flower? First ’twas
‘Azalia’ and then ‘Magnolia’ and then ‘Hibiscus’ and last time ’twas
‘Frangi Pani.’ I’d like to know what that meant.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Tom. “Of course Azalia and Magnolia and
Hibiscus are flowers, but what’s Frangi Pani—sounds like some sort of
Japanese thing to me. I guess this fellow must be talking about boats.
Lots of ships are named after flowers, you know.”

“Well, he must have a whole fleet then,” said Henry.

“Perhaps it’s perfumes or he may be in the flower business,” suggested
Frank with a laugh.

“Perhaps we’ll get the answer to that when we hear his mate,” said Tom.

“Hope we hear him to-night,” remarked Henry. “Say, what do you think of
this scheme?”

For some time the boys forgot all else in examining a new hook-up which
Henry had devised and at last left him with final cautions to be at his
instruments that evening and each night thereafter until they again
heard the unknown speakers.

But it was several nights before the mysterious messages again greeted
their ears. Then Frank and Tom caught them at the same instant and both
boys gave a little start and looked at each other in surprise, for the
first word they heard was “Tuberose.” Once more the name of a flower had
entered into the conversation and mentally wondering what in the world
this meant the two boys slipped the receiver of the desk telephone from
its hook. Hardly had they done so when they almost jumped, as clear and
loud, they heard a human voice; but the next instant their spirits sank
to zero and they glanced at each other with disgusted expressions, for
instead of the voice of the man they had expected to hear they heard a
woman’s voice and her words were: “Number, please?”

With a savage jerk, Tom hung up the receiver.

“Gee!” he exclaimed. “Of course we’d get _her_. I’ll bet Mr. Henderson
knew that and just tried to jolly us. Now what _are_ we going to do? If
we—Hello! What’s that?”

Clearly to his ears, and interrupting the words of the mysterious man
whom they had almost forgotten in their disappointment, came another
voice, evidently that of a woman, and pitched in high tones. “Oh, yes!”
it exclaimed. “I’m _so_ glad, my dear. Do you know—” Tom drew his hand
from the desk phone on which it had been resting and the words trailed
off into a faint indistinct buzz. Tom and Frank grinned.

“Well, it works!” ejaculated Frank. “Of course it doesn’t make any
difference if the receiver is off or not—we aren’t getting waves over
wires. Henry kept the receiver on to-day, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” replied Tom. “But say, we’ve got to get busy. That
chap’s been talking for the last five minutes and we haven’t put down a
thing he’s said.”

Trying to make up for lost time, the two boys jotted down the words that
came in, now and then placing a hand on the desk phone to see if they
could hear the other party to the conversation, but each time the nasal
voice of the woman, gossiping with a friend, was all that came to them.
Then the man’s voice ceased and after a few moments’ wait the boys rose
from their seats.

“Darn that old hen!” exclaimed Tom, petulantly. “How the dickens could a
fellow expect to hear anything with her tongue going like a house
afire?”

“Just think what it’ll be when every one’s talking by radio,” chuckled
Frank. “And won’t the women have the time of their lives hearing all
their neighbors’ gossip?”

“Government’ll have to license ’em to talk, I guess,” muttered Tom.
“Come on, let’s go over to Henry’s and see if he had any better luck.”

But Henry had nothing to tell them. He had heard no conversation over
the phone except some man talking business with a friend, but he had
written down all the words the mysterious man had spoken and showed them
to the boys who had explained how they had forgotten to get the greater
part of the conversation.

“Tuberose,” Tom read. “We’ll begin next week. Getting stocked up. I’ll
bet it’ll wake things up. Too bad we didn’t know then. Might have been a
different tale, eh? Oh, Oscar’s all right. Yes, same old place. Nothing
doing, old man. Never a suspicion. Oh, it’s a cinch. I don’t know. Some
kids, I expect. Got to see him to-night. So long, old man.”

“Just the same old stuff,” commented Tom when he had finished. “Only no
figures this time.”

“And another flower,” added Henry.

“Jim would swear he was crazy if he noticed that,” chuckled Frank. “I’m
beginning to think that may be it myself.”

For three consecutive nights the boys heard the conversation and despite
all efforts failed to hear anything of interest over the ordinary phones
while the radio words were coming in, although they heard various scraps
of conversations between other persons.

“Mr. Henderson was off that time,” declared Tom, when the boys rose from
their sets on the third night. “His theory was wrong. The other chap’s
not talking on a telephone, I’ll bet.”

“Doesn’t look that way at any rate,” agreed Frank. “Let’s go down
to-morrow and tell him.”

Accordingly, the three boys visited Mr. Henderson the next day and
reported the results of their experiments.

“That _does_ puzzle me,” exclaimed Mr. Henderson as they finished. “If
you heard others it’s pretty conclusive evidence he’s not on a wire. Did
you hear those buzzing sounds or words again?”

“I did,” said Henry, “and I heard ’em just as plain and no plainer when
I was a long way from the phone as when I was touching it.”

“Well, we’ve drawn a blank there,” smiled Mr. Henderson. Then, after a
moment’s thought, he exclaimed, “Boys, I’m going to take a chance. I’m
pretty well convinced something’s going on that’s crooked and I’m going
to send some men out and search every building in that block from cellar
to garret. You understand, of course, this is a profound secret. No one
will know who they are or what they’re after. It must be a surprise
visit so don’t even talk it over among yourselves. But I want you to
help us a bit. I’m going to start the men out at eight o’clock sharp,
to-night. You must be at your sets and listening. If the fellow’s
talking, you’ll know when my men find him, either by what he says or the
way he shuts off, and if he goes on talking without interruption for
half an hour you’ll know you’ve made some mistake and he’s not in that
block. Meet me here to-morrow at about this time and we’ll have
something to report—or nothing.”

“Oh, and there’s something else,” announced Tom as the boys turned to
leave. “Henry called attention to those names of flowers yesterday. We’d
almost forgotten about them. Every time that fellow talks he gets a new
name of a flower. Have you noticed it?”

Mr. Henderson chuckled. “You’re getting a pretty good training at this,
boys,” he replied. “Yes, I’ve noticed that—that’s one thing that
influences me more than anything else. There’s some code to those names,
I think, and they may prove the key to the whole thing. We’ll find out
sometime probably.”

Remembering Mr. Henderson’s injunction about discussing the proposed
raid the boys refrained from mentioning it to one another, but could
scarcely restrain their impatience until the time came for them to be at
their instruments.

Eight o’clock came and, excited and expectant, the boys listened, hoping
to hear the message coming in and to learn from its words or its abrupt
ending of the success of the raid. But the minutes ticked by, the hands
of the clock pointed to half-past eight, and nine o’clock came and went
without a word from the source they so longed to hear.

Anxious to learn the result of the search, the boys hurried to Mr.
Henderson’s office the following day.

“Another blank, boys,” he announced when they entered his office. “There
wasn’t a sign of a wireless outfit in that block. Did you hear anything
last night?”

The boys admitted that they had heard nothing.

“But—but there _must_ be a set there,” insisted Tom, utterly unable to
believe that they had been mistaken. “Why, we were all around there with
our loops and we got cross bearings and knew he was there.”

“It’s a bit mysterious, I grant,” replied Mr. Henderson. “I fully
expected we’d locate it, but my men will swear there isn’t even a piece
of radio apparatus in the block. They went through it with a fine-tooth
comb. Either you boys were mistaken or else the fellow’s moved away. If
you hear him again you’ll know whether he’s changed his location. I’m
afraid you’ll never locate him by your instruments, though. I’ve used
those loops as direction finders at sea and to some extent ashore and I
admit I can’t see how you went wrong, but we’ve got to face the fact
that he’s not there—at least not now.”

Thoroughly disappointed and discouraged, the boys left the office and
for hours discussed the matter with one another, but at the end of the
time were no nearer a solution than ever.

“Oh, bother the old thing, anyhow!” exclaimed Tom at last. “We’ve had
our fun and now let’s do something else. Dad’s leaving Nassau to-morrow
and we can try sending to him when he gets nearer. Wonder what he’ll say
about this thing.”

“Yes, but it gets my goat to think that Mr. Henderson will think we’re
such dubs,” said Frank. “He thinks we’ve made some big mistake and put
him to all that trouble for nothing.”

“Well, let’s forget it,” suggested Henry, and this seeming the best
advice the boys followed it and were soon so busy experimenting along
new lines that the mysterious conversations almost slipped from their
minds, and as no further messages were heard from the same source they
decided that by some coincidence the sender had moved bag and baggage
from his former location just in time to escape detection by the men Mr.
Henderson had sent on the search.

Tom and Frank were overjoyed when, a day before Mr. Pauling’s ship
docked, they succeeded in getting a message to him.

“That’s pretty near 300 miles,” declared Tom jubilantly, “and our set’s
only supposed to send 100. Say, that’s a real freak message.”

But when, a few moments later, they heard some one calling their letters
and this was followed by a question as to their location and the
information that the inquirer was the government operator at Fort
Randolph, Canal Zone, Panama, the two boys could only stare at each
other in utter amazement.

“Jehoshaphat!” exclaimed Frank at last. “We were heard clear down in
Panama! Why that’s pretty near 2000 miles!”

“Almost as good as that fellow over in Jersey who was heard in Scotland
and Honduras!” cried Tom. “Hurrah, Frank! Let’s try again.”

But despite every effort the boys failed to get a reply from any one
more than fifty or sixty miles distant and realized that, by some
peculiar atmospheric condition, their dots and dashes had been carried
through the ether for twenty times and more their normal sending range.

“That’s something to tell Dad,” declared Tom, and rushing down the
stairs he excitedly told his mother of the wonderful feat.

“I suppose it is remarkable, if you say so,” said Mrs. Pauling, “but
really, I can’t see why you should not talk to Balboa or Europe or any
other point if you can talk to your father’s ship out at sea. One is
just as wonderful as the other to me. But I’m proud of you just the
same, Tom.”

When, the next day, Mr. Pauling arrived, Tom could scarcely wait to
relate the story of his freak message and his father was enthusiastic
enough to satisfy any boy.

“Marvelous!” he declared. “And the operator on the _San Jacinto_ tells
me you’ve improved a lot since he first talked to you. Says you can send
well and had no trouble in getting his message at regular speed. I’m
mighty glad you’ve done so well, Son. Just as soon as I have a chance
I’m coming up to see that wonder set of yours. How many have you built
since I’ve been gone?”

Then Tom told his father of the mysterious messages and what had come of
their attempts to locate the sender.

Mr. Pauling laughed heartily. “Well, if you got old Henderson interested
he must have believed there was something in it. I don’t know but what
there was. I’ll talk it over with him. But I can imagine your
disappointment, and his too—when nothing came of it. No, Son, I can’t
offer any explanation and we’re as much in the dark as ever about the
smugglers. By the way, I met a chap down at Nassau that was just about
as keen on experiments as you boys only he’s not a radio fan. No, he’s a
diver. He’s invented a new type of diving suit—self-contained he calls
it. Just a sort of rubber cloth shirt and a khaki-colored helmet and
lead-soled shoes. He goes down without ropes or life lines or air hose.
Gets his air from a little box or receptacle strapped to his body. I
don’t know what is in it, but it’s some chemical which produces oxygen
and he can walk about where he pleases on the bottom. It’s the weirdest
thing I’ve ever seen to watch him wade out into the water and disappear
and then, half an hour or two hours later, have him bob up somewhere
else.”

“Gosh, I’d love to see that,” declared Tom. “Suppose he wants to come up
from deep water without walking ashore, how does he manage?”

“He just produces more oxygen so he floats up,” replied Mr. Pauling.
“And you’ll have a chance to talk with him next week. He’s returning to
New York and I’ve asked him to call and see us. Nice young chap, name’s
Rawlins. The only trouble with his outfit is that he can’t communicate
with others ashore or on the boats. Of course he can take down a line or
even a telephone, but then he at once destroys one of the great
advantages of his invention. A trailing line or wire is as liable to be
caught or tangled in a wreck or in coral as an air pipe or any other
rope or line and it means some one must be stationed in a boat over him.
He claims one big advantage of his suit will be the fact that as no boat
or air pump is needed, no one can tell where he is. That would be a fine
thing in time of war, of course. Think you’ll take a great fancy to him,
Tom.”

For a moment, Tom was silent and then he suddenly let out a yell like an
Indian.

“I have it!” he fairly screamed. “Radio! Submarine radio! I’ll bet it’ll
work.”

Then, filled with enthusiasm, he started to explain his ideas to his
father.

“All right! All right!” cried Mr. Pauling, laughing and holding up his
hands in protestation. “I’ll take your word for the technical end of it.
Wait and tell Rawlins about it. But honestly I don’t know but what there
may be something in it. You and Rawlins can work it out.”

So filled with his new idea was Tom, that he fairly rushed to tell Frank
when the latter arrived, and for the next ten days the two were
ceaselessly at work, drawing plans and diagrams, making and discarding
instruments, purchasing countless rolls of wire and knock-down
apparatus, as they strove to put into concrete form the vision in Tom’s
brain.

But they found innumerable difficulties to be overcome and were almost
discouraged when one evening Rawlins called.

He was such an enthusiastic and interesting man that the boys took a
huge liking for him and as soon as Tom told him of his idea he at once
fell in with the boys’ plans.

“I do believe it can be done!” he declared, when Tom had shown him the
plans and had described his ideas fully. “I don’t know much about radio,
but if you are right about the matter there’s no reason I can see why
you shouldn’t get it to work. I tell you what, Tom, we’ll fit up a
workshop and laboratory down at my father’s dock—it’s down near the foot
of 28th St. and we don’t use it except for storage. The old gentleman’s
gone out of the wrecking business and has sold all his outfit except the
things stored there. It’s a fine place to work and experiment. There are
tools and a machine lathe and about ten tons of odds and ends that may
come in handy. My father had his office and workshop there—did all his
repairing of pumps, diving suits and tugs there, and never threw
anything away. I learned to dive there—my father and grandfather were
deep-sea divers, too—and there’s a trapdoor where the divers went down
to test their suits and pumps. I made my suits and even my under-sea
motion picture outfit there and it’s private and no one will disturb us.
The only way we can test out this idea of yours is by actual trial under
water. If we do get it, it will be a mighty big thing—greatest
improvement in sub-sea work ever. I’ll get the place ready and cleaned
up a bit to-morrow. I’m just as crazy as you are to try it out.”

Mr. Henderson also was deeply interested in the boys’ new experiments
and declared he believed their ideas might be worked out successfully.

“You’ll run across a lot of unexpected and unforeseen difficulties,” he
warned them. “One never knows what new laws and phenomena one may run up
against in a thing of this sort. During the war our government and the
Allies, and no doubt Germany also, carried on a good many experiments
with under-water radio, but as far as I know they never came to much.
Radio had not progressed so far then and there were more important
things to be done and not enough men to attend to it. We _did_ use
vacuum tubes and amplifiers for detecting submarines, however. By the
way, I have a few things that may be of help to you boys and I’ll be
glad to let you have them. Among them is a remarkable tuning device of
German make and I don’t think it has ever been tried out. You’ll need
something that is simple and accurate and easy to control and this may
do the trick.”

By the end of a week a snug little laboratory had been set up on
Rawlins’ dock and the boys and their diver friend spent every available
moment of their time there.

Tom and Frank were as interested in seeing Rawlins go down in his odd
suit as he was in their radio work, and the first time he put it on to
demonstrate it to the boys they became tremendously excited. Rawlins
carefully explained all about it, pointing out its various parts and
showing them how the oxygen generator worked.

“You have to be careful about this,” he said, “if a drop of water gets
into it, it blazes or flames up and may kill a fellow. That’s the only
danger about it. If a man forgets and takes the mouthpiece from his lips
to speak without shutting it off and water gets in, he’ll have a red hot
flame inside his helmet. It’s easy to get accustomed to it though—comes
as natural as breathing, after a bit of practice.”

But even now that it had been explained to them it seemed a most
remarkable feat for Rawlins to don the shirtlike suit and helmet and,
with only these over his ordinary garments and with no rubber trousers
covering his legs, descend the ladder and disappear in the water without
lines, pipes or ropes trailing after him. Both Tom and Frank were crazy
to go down, but Rawlins refused to permit it until he had made the suits
“fool proof” as he put it. Even then, the boys’ parents objected until
they had visited the workshop and Rawlins had proved to their
satisfaction that the boys were perfectly safe in shallow water when he
accompanied them.

“We’ll have to go down to test out the radio,” argued Tom, “so we might
as well learn right away.”

At last the fathers gave in and Tom went down first with Rawlins. For a
week afterwards he could think or talk of nothing else and never tired
relating his sensations and experiences to his parents and his boy
friends, and Frank did the same. But after the first few times the
novelty wore off and the boys soon became quite accustomed to going to
the bottom of the river. Rawlins, however, never allowed them to stay
down more than a few minutes at a time and after the first few descents
the boys found little fun in it. They had expected to find a smooth,
hard bottom and to see fishes swimming about and to be able to look up
and see passing boats overhead. To their surprise, they found they could
not walk upright, but leaned far forward and had a peculiar dreamy
sensation when they attempted to walk, their feet seeming to half-drag,
half-float behind them and that, despite the fact that the bottom of the
river was soft and muddy, they did not sink into the bottom to any
extent. As Tom put it, it was like trying to hurry in a dream when one’s
feet seem tied to something and one can’t possibly run. Moreover, they
found the water dark and so filled with sediment that they could see but
a few feet and even near-by objects, such as the spiles and abutments of
the dock, the ladder down which they descended and the figure of their
companion were scarcely visible a yard distant and took on strange,
hazy, indistinct and distorted forms. Indeed, Rawlins always held their
hands when they went down, explaining that should they stray a few yards
away they might be lost or might be swept off in some current.

But they were glad of the experience and realized that in order to carry
on their experiments with any hopes of success they must learn to use
the suits, for Rawlins had not yet mastered the details of radio.

In the meantime, however, they worked at the radio devices and at last
Tom announced that he had a set which he believed might work.

“It’s only an experimental set,” he explained to Rawlins. “And it won’t
stand up long under water, but if the idea’s all right and we get any
results we can go to work and make a good outfit on the same principle.”

Rawlins was almost as excited as the boys when the day came to test the
new device and at Tom’s suggestion was to go down alone with the
receiver in his helmet while the boys remained on the dock and attempted
to communicate with him.

“We’ll try receiving under water first,” said Tom. “If it works we’ll
get it into good shape and then get busy on the under-water sending
set.”

So, with the compact but complicated little set inside his helmet, which
was specially made to accommodate it, and with the receivers clamped
over his ears, Rawlins backed down the ladder while the boys, feeling
like explorers about to set foot on some new and unknown land, watched
his head disappear beneath the surface of the river.

It was little wonder that they were wildly excited for now, in a few
moments, they would know beyond question whether their ideas had been
right and whether all their work and trouble had been thrown away or
they had made an advance in radio which might revolutionize under-sea
work.

At first the boys had not fully realized what the success of their
efforts would mean and had gone into it enthusiastically merely as
something new and strange.

But as soon as Rawlins had explained the possibilities which a
successful under-sea radio telephone would open up, they understood how
much might hinge on the triumph or failure of their plans.

“Why,” Rawlins had exclaimed, “think what it will do if it works! A man
can go down and walk about any place he chooses and yet can talk back
and forth with men on a ship or on shore. In wrecking, he could go all
through a ship with no danger of getting his life-line or air-hose
tangled and he could direct the fellows on the tug or lighter, telling
them just where to lower chains or tackle or anything else. And think
what it would mean in time of war! Why, a man could walk out from shore
anywhere, go under a ship and fasten a mine to her and blow her up and
hear all that was going on aboard the enemy’s ship. And just think what
a dangerous sort of spy a man would be—out of sight under the sea and
yet able to hear all the talk and messages of the enemy! I tell you,
boys, up to now diving’s been like blind man’s work—mostly feeling and
signaling by jerks on a line. Of course the ordinary phone was a big
advance, but with that you still had to trail a wire along and there was
a visible connection between the diver and the surface. With my suits
and your radio the country that owned the secrets would be mighty near
masters of the sea, I’ll say.”




CHAPTER V

THE UNDER-SEA WIRELESS


As soon as Rawlins was out of sight the boys commenced to talk, Tom
speaking through the transmitter while Frank wrote down what he said,
for of course they could not know if Rawlins heard them, and the only
means of determining if he had received all the words was to keep a
record for comparison when he came up. They were busily engaged at this
and tremendously interested and excited, when the telephone bell rang.
Telling Rawlins to wait a moment, and explaining the reason, Tom ceased
speaking while Frank answered the call.

“Hello, Frank,” came Henry’s voice. “I just rang up to be sure you were
there. How’s everything going?”

“Fine!” replied Frank, “come on down, we’re just testing it out for the
first time. When did you get back?”

“Last evening—but didn’t have a chance to run around to see you. I
called up, but the maid said you were out with Tom. Didn’t she tell you?
I’ll be right down, you bet. Say, I’ve some news for you. So long.”

“I’m glad he’s back from that trip with his father and is coming down,”
said Tom, “Won’t he be interested and surprised if this works? Wonder
what the news is.”

Then, turning to his set, he continued his interrupted talk, or attempt
to talk, with Rawlins until, five minutes later, Henry was pounding at
the door.

“Gee, but you’ve a fine place here!” he cried as he glanced about the
little laboratory, “and you’ve diving suits and helmets and everything.
Say, I was just crazy to get back when I got your letter telling about
your experiments and everything. Where’s the diver fellow? Oh say,
you’re not really talking to him under water! Crickety! Isn’t that
wonderful to think he can hear you down under the river!”

Tom laughed. “Don’t know if he can,” he replied. “We’ll have to wait for
him to come up and tell. You see we haven’t got an under-sea sending set
rigged up yet and the one he’s got is just a sort of makeshift for
experimenting.”

“Have you fellows heard anything more of that mystery chap?” cried
Henry, suddenly changing the subject.

“Not a word,” Tom assured him.

“Well, I have then,” declared Henry triumphantly. “I heard him last
night and I got him again to-day just before I called you fellows. He
was in the same old place, too.”

“Honest? Say, that _is_ funny!” exclaimed Frank. “What was he saying?”

“Don’t know,” replied Henry, “He was talking some foreign lingo that I
couldn’t make out, but I got one word. Bet you couldn’t guess what
’twas—another flower—Oleander this time.”

The boys were so interested in Henry’s news that they had temporarily
forgotten their under-water companion until Henry uttered a half
surprised exclamation and jumped away from the square opening in the
floor over the river.

“Gosh, there he comes!” he cried, as overcoming his first surprise at a
gurgling splash he glanced through the trapdoor and saw the diver’s
helmet appearing. “Don’t he look like a regular sea monster?”

A moment later, Rawlins was removing his suit and helmet.

“Did you hear us?” cried Tom the moment Rawlins’ face was visible.

“Did I!” exclaimed the diver. “Did I! Let me tell you I wished I had
cotton stuffed in my ears. You must think I’m deaf,—yelling like that.
Did you think you had to shout loud enough to have your voice go through
the water? And I’ll tell you I thought a tornado’d struck the place when
your friend here arrived. I even heard the telephone bell.”

Tom and Frank fairly danced with delight. “Hurrah! It works! It’s a
success! We’ve solved it! It’s under-sea radio!” shouted the excited
boys.

“I’ll say it works!” declared Rawlins. “But what the deuce were you
trying to talk Dutch for?”

“Talk Dutch?” cried Tom in a puzzled tone. “We weren’t talking Dutch or
anything but United States.”

It was Rawlins’ turn to be amazed. “Well, who in thunder was then?” he
asked. “I heard some one jabbering Dutch or some other foreign
language—don’t know what ’twas except it wasn’t French or Spanish.”

Henry gave a whoop. “It was that other fellow!” he cried excitedly.
“I’ll bet ’twas. He was talking just before I rang up as I told you.
Jehoshaphat! Mr. Rawlins must have heard him under water.”

“I guess that’s it,” agreed Tom. “Funny it didn’t occur to me. Of course
there’s no reason why he shouldn’t have been heard under water. We’re
using a tiny little wave length and so’s he, and he’s close to here, you
know. Did you hear him loudly, Mr. Rawlins?”

“Well, not so as to deafen me the way you did,” replied the diver with a
grin, “but if I’d understood his lingo I could have told what he was
talking about. The only word that sounded like sense to me was something
like Oleander.”

“Then ’twas him!” fairly yelled Henry ungrammatically. “That’s the name
he was using when I heard him.”

“Well, it just proves this new thing is a peacherino,” declared Tom.
“Now let’s get busy and fix it up in good shape and make a sending set
to try out.”

Now that the boys’ first experiment had been such a huge success they
were more enthusiastic and excited than ever. They had been confident
that the diver would be able to hear sounds or that he might even
distinguish words under water, but they had not dared to hope that their
very first efforts would result in the sound being carried to the ears
of the man beneath the water as clearly and loudly as though he had been
present in the same room with the speaker.

“I’ll bet water carries electromagnetic waves better than air,” declared
Tom. “Why, if this little set can respond to these short five watt waves
in this way, think what it would mean to a submarine with big amplified
sets and getting messages sent with hundreds of watts. Why a fellow
could sit in Washington and talk to submarines and divers all over the
Atlantic.”

“You’ve hit on a wonderful possibility,” Rawlins assured him. “Of course
I was pretty close—I didn’t go over a hundred yards from the dock and
it’s shoal water. I’m anxious to try it down a hundred feet or so and a
mile or two from the sender. We’ll do that after we get things right—go
down to my hangout in the Bahamas and give it a real honest-to-goodness
tryout.”

“It’s all in that new amplifying arrangement and that single control
tuner Frank hit upon,” said Tom. “And we’re not really responsible for
either. Mr. Henderson gave us the idea for the tuner and a friend of
Dad’s invented the tube, but couldn’t get any one interested. You see,
Henry, this tube is just about 400 times as much of an amplifier as the
other tubes, and we get a detector and amplifier all in one. Look
here—it’s the smallest bulb you ever saw—about the size of a peanut and
we operate it on a flashlight battery with a special little dry cell for
the filament. Of course they don’t last long, but a fellow can’t stay
down more than an hour or two anyway and the batteries will run the set
steadily for five hours. For under-sea work the cost don’t count. What
we’re up against now is to make the sending set to go with it. The
receiver was easy. That fits in this special helmet all right and don’t
have to be waterproof, but the sending set’ll have to be outside and
it’ll be an awful job to keep the water from short circuiting it.”

As he talked, Tom was showing Henry the set and pointing out its many
novel features.

“This single tuner is great,” he continued. “It’s fixed so it’s set at a
certain spot for the normal wave lengths sent from the diver’s home
station. See, here in the middle at zero. Then, if he wants to get a
shorter wave he turns it to the left which gives him a range down to
half his normal wave length, or for longer waves he turns it to the
right and gets twice his normal length. If he wants to go to long wave
lengths—for example, if he was a spy or something and wanted to get the
big sending stations—he’d turn the knob clear to the left and then back
to the right and around to opposite the zero point. Then he’d be on
about 2500 meters and that being his utmost length he just has to tune
slowly towards zero again. And the rheostat works automatically with it
and so does the variable condenser and it’s not very complicated
either.”

“But what does he do for an aërial?” queried Henry.

“Doesn’t use one,” replied Tom. “Just has this sort of wire cage
sticking from his helmet, like a loop, but made of two grids set at
right angles to each other. But gosh! I never thought about there being
interferences under water.”

“I suppose Henry understands all that,” interrupted Rawlins laughingly,
“but it means about as much to me as that Dutch talk I heard. Somehow or
other I can’t get on to this radio a little bit. When you get that
sending outfit rigged you’ll have to go down and test it. I’d probably
bungle something. I didn’t even dare meddle with this gadget for tuning.
I tried it once and when your voice stopped I just shoved her back and
let it go at that. That’s when I heard that Dutchman.”

“Then he’s on a different wave length and it proves _we_ can tune out
under water,” declared Tom gleefully. “That’s another feather in our
caps.”

Henry quickly grasped the boys’ ideas and together the three worked
diligently until sundown while Rawlins busied himself devising the
fittings for his suit to accommodate the sending apparatus and helped
the boys tremendously with suggestions for rendering a set watertight
and with advice as to mechanical and other details.

By the time they were obliged to stop their work the plans for the
under-sea transmission set were well worked out and, with high hopes and
flushed with the success of their achievements, they locked up the
workshop and walked up town discussing plans for the morrow.

The following day they went to the dock right after breakfast, for
school was over for the season and they had all their time to
themselves. Rawlins was already there and before they left that night
they had the set nearly completed and Tom declared they would be able to
give it a test the next day.

Mr. Pauling was of course deeply interested and enthusiastic over the
boys’ work and promised to go down himself as soon as the instruments
were perfected. He listened to the boys’ glowing accounts of their work
and their success and later, when Mr. Henderson called, he too became
most optimistic regarding their under-sea radio.

“It’s merely a question of experimenting, boys,” he declared. “We were
on the right track during the war, but radio’s jumped ahead a lot since
then and whatever the government experts accomplish is kept mighty
quiet. I’m glad that single control works out so well. We’ll have to
thank the Huns for that. We found one on a captured U-boat, but as far
as I know the government never took it up seriously—don’t know why
unless it was because there was no particular need of it. We never did
find out what the Germans used it for—for all we know they may have been
experimenting along under-sea lines too. And if that new tube of
Michelson’s proves good he’ll make a fortune and have you boys to thank
for it. I’m coming down to see your outfit just as soon as we get a
breathing space. We’re rushed to death just now.”

With nothing else to do the boys amused themselves listening at their
sets which, with so many other interests, had been sadly neglected of
late, and, out of pure curiosity and never expecting to hear anything,
Tom turned his loop aërial to the southeast and tuned for the short wave
lengths used by the mysterious talker they had once followed and tried
to locate so persistently. To his surprise, the sound of words came
clearly over the set.

“There he is again!” Tom exclaimed to Frank who was listening to a
broadcasted speech. “Get him and we’ll see what he says.”

But despite the fact that the boys could both hear the man plainly his
words were meaningless, for he was speaking some guttural,
harsh-sounding tongue.

“Oh, pshaw!” ejaculated Tom disgustedly after a few minutes of this.
“Who cares what he’s saying. I guess it’s some crazy foreigner.”

So saying, he again picked up the broadcasting station and forgot all
about the incident in his interest as he listened to a lecture on new
developments in radio.

“Some night we’ll be listening to that fellow talking about the new
under-sea radio,” chuckled Frank as the talk ceased and the boys laid
aside their receivers. “Say, won’t it be sport to hear him telling about
us and know all the fellows are listening to it?”

“Well, we won’t count our chickens just yet,” declared Tom sagely. “Just
because that receiving set works isn’t any proof the sending set will.
And without being able to talk back a diver isn’t any better off—or at
least much better off—if he can hear what’s going on in the air.”

But Tom might have been far more confident, for the following day when
the test was made it worked much better than their most sanguine
expectations had led them to think possible. To be sure, their
experiments came to an abrupt ending right in the midst of the test, for
the sending set on Tom’s suit leaked and, with a feeble buzz and
sputter, his words trailed off to nothingness.

But when, upon reaching the surface, Rawlins reported that he had heard
everything Tom had said and Frank and Henry in the shop had also heard
him, the boys knew that their plans and the principles of the outfit
were all right and that only the question of making the set absolutely
watertight remained to be solved.

“I don’t see why it should not be inside the suit,“ declared Rawlins, as
the boys were discussing the matter and were at a loss to know how to
accomplish their aims. “You say these wireless waves go through
everything and we get them through the suit in the receiving set so why
shouldn’t they go out through everything just as well. Look here, I was
thinking over this last night and here’s my idea.”

As the boys gathered about, the diver rapidly sketched his plan of a new
suit in which the sending set could be placed within a receptacle full
of compressed air.

“I believe that _would_ work,” cried Tom when he grasped Rawlins’
scheme. “I don’t see why compressed air should affect the outfit any and
it’s easy enough to make watertight fittings where the wires come out
and there’s no tuning to do, We can always use a special wave length and
if several men were talking under water each one could have his own wave
length. Yes. I’ll bet you’ve solved the puzzle, Mr. Rawlins.”

Keen on the new plan the boys started a new set, or rather two new sets,
for they wished to make a test to determine if two men under water could
converse, while Rawlins busied himself on the special suits and air
pockets to be used.

“We’ll have to balance the weight of the set against the increased
buoyancy of this compressed air,” he remarked as he worked. “But I see
where that’s an advantage. One of your troubles has been the weight of
batteries and by this air caisson arrangement weight won’t cut any
figure under water.”

“But suppose the air pocket springs a leak?” queried Frank. “We’d be
just as badly off as before.”

“Well, I don’t calculate to have it leak,” replied Rawlins, “but if you
make the sets as near watertight as you can, they’d still go on working
for some time before they got soaked. And if I can’t make a little
caisson that’ll hold a hundred pounds of air for ten or twelve hours
I’ll give up diving and drive a taxi.”

Several days, however, were required to get the set and the air pocket
suits ready and when, after a test in the workshop, everything seemed in
perfect working order, Tom and Rawlins donned their suits and prepared
to descend the ladder through the trapdoor.

Just before his head dipped beneath the surface of the water Tom spoke
into his mouthpiece and Frank, listening at his instruments, gave a
start as his chum’s voice came clearly to his ears.

“So long, old man,” came Tom’s cheery voice, which somehow Frank had
expected would sound muffled. “Keep your ear glued to the set and be
ready for great news. I’ll bet we give you a surprise.”

The next instant only a few bubbles marked the spot where Tom had sunk
beneath the surface of the water, and little did he or the others dream
how much truth was in his parting words or what an amazing surprise was
awaiting not only Frank but himself.




CHAPTER VI

THE RED MENACE


During the weeks while Tom and his friends were busy at their work on
the under-sea radio, grave and sinister events were taking place, of
which the boys knew little or nothing, but which kept Mr. Pauling, Mr.
Henderson and their men in a perpetual state of worry, and of sleepless
nights and unceasing work.

Close upon the heels of the unprecedented influx of contraband liquor,
which despite every effort continued undiminished and which had
completely baffled the officials, came a flood of Bolshevist propaganda
of the most dangerous and revolutionary character. Suddenly, and without
warning, it had appeared throughout the country. Every town, city and
village was filled with it and so cleverly were the circulars, booklets
and handbills worded, so logical were the arguments and statements they
contained, so appealing to the uneducated foreign element and the
dissatisfied army of the unemployed that they were greedily read,
accepted and absorbed until the country was menaced by a red revolution
and officials went to bed never knowing what bloodshed and destruction
the morrow might hold in store.

Almost coincident with this came a wave of crime. Hold-ups, burglars,
murders, kidnaping and incendiarism swept like an epidemic through the
big cities. Scarcely a day passed that the daily papers did not bear
glaring headlines announcing some new and daring crime. Bank messengers,
paymasters, cashiers and business men were held up at the point of
revolvers or were blackjacked on the public streets in broad daylight.
Stores and shops were boldly entered by masked bandits who held up and
robbed the clerks and customers alike. Taxis and motor cars were
attacked, their occupants beaten into unconsciousness and robbed and the
vehicles stolen under the noses of the police. Homes of the rich, banks
and business houses were entered and ransacked despite electric burglar
alarms and armed guards. Each day the daring criminals grew bolder. From
thugs they were changing into murderous bandits; where formerly a man
was knocked down or blackjacked the victims were now shot in cold blood.
Murders and homicides were of daily occurrence. Even on crowded
thoroughfares within sight of hundreds of passers-by men were killed and
the bandits escaped and no one felt that life and property were safe.
The police seemed powerless and at a loss. Now and then a bandit was
captured. Occasionally one would be shot down, wounded or killed by an
officer or by some prospective victim, but still the crimes continued
unabated. Indeed, the more the police strove to check the bandits the
more they appeared to thrive and increase and the bolder they became.
Lawlessness was rampant and, while the public wondered, criticized,
clamored for protection, and countless theories were put forth, those in
the inner circle, the secret agents of the government and the trusted
ones, knew that, back of it all, the underlying cause and the root of
the evil was the red propaganda which they were powerless to check.

Many were the secret meetings, the closely guarded conferences held
between the untiring officers detailed to run the menace to earth, to
stamp the venomous Bolshevist serpent underfoot, to bring the country to
its safe and sane law-abiding state of the past. And prominent in all
such closely guarded, mysterious councils were Mr. Pauling and Mr.
Henderson.

“There is some one mind directing it all, in my opinion,” declared Mr.
Pauling. “Some arch criminal—a Bolshevist emissary—some man with a
tremendous brain, marvelous executive ability, immense personal
magnetism, but whose mind, heart and soul are warped and twisted. One
who is such a criminal as the world has fortunately never known before.
If we can lay our hands on him the rest will be easy. Without a leader,
without a directive brain, these common criminals will be lost. They are
arrant cowards, mere tools and yet, by some almost superhuman power, are
controlled, directed, moved like pawns on a chessboard, by an unseen,
mysterious being who so far has completely baffled us.”

“I agree with you perfectly,” said Mr. Henderson. “I believe the same
man, the same arch fiend, is back of the rum-running; that this is
merely a tryout, a test, to see if we can detect him and that through it
all is a deep-laid, dastardly plot to inflame the people and at the same
time enrich himself. To my mind, it savors of some one far greater in
brain power, in intrigue and in ability than those unshaven, misguided
Russians. It looks far more as if it were German work—perhaps some high
officer of the Prussian army or navy—who, afraid of his own republican
countrymen and filled with a fiendish desire for revenge, is devoting
himself to the destruction of law and order in the United States.”

“That is very plausible as a theory,” remarked another man, “but it does
not get us anywhere. If this is so, where does this master mind stay?
Where are his headquarters? Surely he must have underlings,—lieutenants
and trusted emissaries and some place, some headquarters, from which his
nefarious schemes are sent forth. Nothing comes in by mail or by
passengers we know. Every alien who enters is known. Not a word that
tends to bear out your theories had been wrung from the men captured
even though they were on the verge of death or were about to go to the
electric chair. No, I do not agree with you. It’s merely the aftermath
of the war. Men were taught to handle firearms and to kill their fellow
men. They were fed up, encouraged and lived with excitement and constant
peril. The war ended; they were out of work, they pined for the thrill
of danger and their viewpoint of life, of property and of right and
wrong was distorted. Banditry offered an easy way of securing funds; it
filled their desire for excitement; it satisfied their grudge against
society and their country and, like all crimes which succeed, it became
contagious and got a grip on more and more men. It’s all the logical
outcome of the war and in my opinion the red propaganda has nothing
whatever to do with it.”

Mr. Henderson smiled. “Perhaps I may be able to change your views,
Selwin,” he remarked. “I wanted to know your ideas before I came out
with it. As you all know, I was on special work during the war—detailed
to decode all suspicious messages that came in by radio or cable and to
use my vivid imagination to try to find hidden meanings in apparently
innocent messages. You all know the result, and there is no need of
recalling specific cases, such as the famous sugar shipment to Garcia
and the announcement of a baby’s birth but which, thanks to my ‘hunch’
or imagination or whatever you wish to call it, led to the apprehension
of the most dangerous female spy of the time and the confiscation of
those incriminating documents which saved the _Leviathan_ from
destruction, prevented several thousand of our boys from going to the
bottom of the sea, kept Brooklyn bridge from being blown to bits, thus
blocking the Navy Yard, and prevented countless women and children from
being widows and orphans. But perhaps you do not all know that, back of
that stupendous plot, that greatest attempted coup of the enemy to
terrorize and cripple the United States, that supreme effort of a dying,
beaten nation to turn the tide of war and transform her from the
vanquished to the victor, was the work of one man. To him was entrusted
this almost superhuman task. The reward, if he succeeded, was to be
honors and riches beyond conception. Had he won he would to-day be
seated upon the throne of England—the despotic, iron-handed governor of
a German colony with his feet upon the neck of the British people and
with the colossal indemnity, which it had been planned to exact from our
country, as his monetary reward. If he failed, his life was to pay the
forfeit. Not only his life was to be sacrificed, but his lands and
property were to be confiscated, his family imprisoned, degraded and
exiled. It was, I think, the greatest, the most stupendous gamble ever
known. And the gambler lost! By the merest chance, by pure accident, by
a coincidence which no human being could have foreseen, his messages—the
vital message—came into my hands and, through a tiny mistake, an error
which might have passed a thousand eyes unnoticed, the conspirator—this
gambler in nations and life—was betrayed and all his efforts, his
widespread plots, his carefully organized plans came to nothing. But yet
he escaped. Evidently he considered a gambling debt one that could be
disregarded. His country, or rather his emperor, had overlooked a most
important matter. He had failed to provide for getting hold of the
gambler to collect his debt. No doubt, had Germany been victorious, some
emissary of the Kaiser would eventually have found this man and would
have exacted payment in full. But with Germany’s downfall he was safe—at
least as long as he remained out of Germany—and so completely did he
efface himself that we came to the conclusion that he had committed
suicide. But, gentlemen, I am willing to wager my reputation that he
still lives. I have evidence which to my mind is absolutely conclusive
that he is at the bottom of this Bolshevist propaganda, this influx of
liquor, this wave of crime.”

Amazed, the others gazed at Mr. Henderson as he paused after this
surprising announcement.

“Jove! That’s some statement!” cried one. “If you’re right, Henderson,
we’ve got our work cut out for us. I can see why he might do it though.
I know who you mean—there’s no use mentioning names even here. And if it
is he I can understand why he has picked on Uncle Sam. But, by Jove, old
man, if ’tis he, then watch your step! He’s no man to forgive or forget.
He’ll have his eye on you and mark you for a come-back, I’ll wager.”

Henderson smiled grimly. “He has already,” he remarked dryly. “That’s my
proof that he’s the man. Like all of his kind he’s so confoundedly
conceited, so cocksure of himself, so puffed up with his own importance
that, sooner or later, he’s bound to overdo himself. He cannot resist
the temptation to let some one know what a big toad in the puddle he is.
He must boast or bust and such men always hang themselves if you give
them rope enough. Here’s the rope he’s hung himself with!”

As he finished, Mr. Henderson tossed a sheet of paper on the table and
the others crowded close to examine it.

To the casual observer, it would have meant little. A sheet of ordinary
note paper with a single line written by a typewriter across it. There
was no date, no signature, merely the words: “Remember Mercedes and
Garcia.” But to these keen-eyed, square-jawed, quiet men those words
carried grave import. To them, it meant more than pages of writing might
have carried.

“I guess you’re right,” exclaimed Selwin. “That is, as far as his being
alive and this coming from him is concerned. But why do you think he or
this has any connection with the other matters?”

“Another coincidence—or perhaps you’ll say imagination,” replied Mr.
Henderson. “Examine this pamphlet—the latest effusion of our red
propagandists. Do you notice anything peculiar about it?”

Each man shook his head as the flimsy pamphlet passed from hand to hand.

“Very well,” commented Mr. Henderson. “You notice that it’s not
printed—that is, with type. It’s a zincotype impression from
typewriting. And if you look closely you’ll also see that the small “a”
has a broken tail, the capital “T” has a little twist in one arm of the
top, the small “e” is flattened or battered and the “B” always shows a
tiny smudge above it where the character on the same key struck the
paper owing to the type bar being bent slightly. Now, kindly examine
this terse note I showed you and see if you do not find the identical
defects in the same letters.”

“By Jove, yes!” cried one, as they again studied the paper. “Henderson,
you’re a winner. The machine that wrote one wrote the other. Not a shade
of a doubt of it. But how about the rest of these dirty sheets and how
about the bandits and the liquor?”

“I’ve examined several thousand circulars and pamphlets,” replied Mr.
Henderson, “and all that are typewritten are the same. Our friend is
doing all the writing on one machine. I imagine he is hanging out
somewhere and takes no chances by entrusting his work to outsiders. A
man could do all the typing and could make zinc photo plates in a single
small room. As for my hunch that the rum-runners are connected with the
same gang, it’s based on this.”

As he spoke, he placed a small metal object on the table, a bit of lead
about half an inch in diameter and resembling a small coin. The others
picked it up and examined it curiously.

“Well, what’s this to do with the matter?” asked one.

“This note,” replied Mr. Henderson, “was left at my door and to prevent
it from blowing away this bit of lead was placed upon it. You don’t see
anything suspicious about it, but you may when I draw your attention to
the fact that this is a metal seal from a particular brand and make of
an extremely high-priced French West Indian liquor. Until the day after
I received this reminder of Mercedes and Garcia, there was not, to the
best of our knowledge and belief, a single bottle of that Pére Kerrman
liqueur in the United States—except possibly in the private stock of
some millionaire or exclusive club. Two days later, the country was
flooded with it.”

“You win!” cried Selwin. “Now about the bandits. Have you got them dead
to rights, too?”

“Ask Pauling,” replied Mr. Henderson. “He’s the next witness.”

“Here’s my exhibit A,” said Mr. Pauling, as he drew a creased paper from
an inside pocket and placed it before the assembled officials.

“H-m-m, another threat, eh?” remarked the first one who examined it.

“Yes, commanding me to drop investigation of that hold-up gang that the
police nabbed on West 16th St. last week. Nothing was said while the
police were at it, but as soon as I took hold I received this.”

“And written with the same old machine!” exclaimed Selwin. “All right,
Pauling, I may be from Missouri, but you and Henderson have shown me.
Now let’s plan a campaign.”

“If these two notes were sent by the same man, as they appear to have
been,” remarked a quiet man who heretofore had said nothing but had been
steadily consuming one black cigar after another by the process of
chewing them between his strong white teeth, “then our game is right
underfoot, so to speak—right in little old Manhattan probably.”

“Bully for you, Meredith!” cried a small, wiry, nervous man, clapping
the other familiarly on the back. “‘The mills of the gods,’ etc., you
know. Where did you fish that idea from?”

“From some place you lack—a brain,” retorted Meredith continuing to bite
savagely at his cigar. “But, fooling aside,” he went on, “it’s a cinch
he is. Henderson and Pauling get their notes only two days apart and,
what’s more, Pauling gets his within twenty-four hours after he starts
that investigation. No time for word to get any other place and have a
bit of typewritten paper get back.”

“Huh! Then, according to you, all this red rubbish is also written right
in the old home-town, eh?” snorted the thin man.

“Yep,” replied Meredith. “Expect that’s why we haven’t nailed its source
yet. Fact is, I believe there isn’t any rum being smuggled in. Been
stored here and just being distributed now. Bet we’ve all been walking
over the trail star-gazing. So darned sure it was all coming in from
outside we never thought of it being right alongside of us.”

“That’s a possibility,” admitted Henderson and then, dropping their
voices, the half dozen men earnestly discussed plans, offered
suggestions, examined mysterious documents stored in a hidden and
massive safe in the wall and pored over maps and diagrams which no one,
outside of this inner circle, would ever see.

At the end of two hours, the conference broke up. The papers and
documents were replaced in their secret vault, the maps and diagrams
were locked in a steel box and thrust in another safe and the men
chatted on various matters, discussing the latest news, arguing the
respective merits of motor cars, expressing opinions as to the next
pennant winner, telling jokes and thoroughly enjoying themselves as if
they had not a care in the world and were not literally carrying their
lives in their hands day and night.

“What’s that boy of yours doing in radio now?” asked Meredith,
addressing Mr. Pauling when the conversation finally turned towards
wireless. “Henderson was telling me about their ‘radio detective’ stuff.
Great kid—Tom.”

“Oh, he and Frank Putney are working on a submarine radio scheme. I met
a young chap at Nassau with a new-fangled diving suit and he and the
boys are trying to work out a radio outfit to use under water. Say,
they’re succeeding, too.”

“Jove! that’s a great scheme!” exclaimed another. “Under-sea wireless!
Well, I’ll be hanged, what won’t our kids be up to next!”

“Wish we’d had anything as good to tinker with when we were kids,”
declared Selwin. “I remember how every one laughed at Marconi when he
first started wireless. My boy’s crazy over it now. Well, I must be
getting on.”

Rising, Selwin slipped from the room, sauntered casually about the
corridor, noted the seemingly inattentive janitor brushing imaginary
dust from a window frame, knew that the lynx-eyed guard was on his job,
and without a sign of recognition made his way to the elevator and the
street. At intervals of half an hour or so the others left, some by the
same corridor, others through an outer room, where an office boy seemed
dozing in a chair over a lurid, paper-covered novel—but upon whose
boyish, freckled cheeks a closely-shaven, heavy beard might have been
detected by a near examination—while still others took a roundabout
route and descended to the street on the opposite side of the building.
At last, only Mr. Pauling and Henderson were left and the two friends,
glad of a chance to have a quiet smoke and to be free from care for a
short time, sat chatting and talking over Mr. Pauling’s last trip to the
West Indies.

“It was positively baffling,” stated Mr. Pauling in reply to a question.
“I knew they were filled to the gunwales with liquor and I knew as well
as I wanted to that the cargo was going to the States and yet, when they
got here and our men boarded them they were either empty or carried
legitimate cargoes or else they never touched our ports and came back
empty. It’s common talk that the stuff is going to us, but no one has
given away how it’s done yet. Why, I even had one trailed—shadowed by a
disguised cutter—and they kept her within sight for days and then I’ll
be hanged if she didn’t come back without a sign of cargo. Now where did
they land it? Only solution is they got cold feet and heaved it
overboard.”

“More likely they met some other craft during the night and
transhipped,” suggested Mr. Henderson. “I imagine that’s how they get it
in. Have some prearranged signal and spot and ship the stuff in at
another port while they sail boldly into harbor. Of course we’re
watching for them and let up on other places and while we’re boarding
the suspect the other craft gets in on some unfrequented bit of coast
and meets a truck or car. It’s not hard. We can’t guard _all_ the coast
with our force and I’m sure that game’s played sometimes, if not always.
We’ve taken a lot of stuff that afterwards proved to be colored water or
cane-juice and of course they didn’t bring that from Cuba or the Bahamas
just for the sake of getting our goats.”

“And then there were the Chinese,” resumed Mr. Pauling. “Of course there
we’ve another difficulty because, once set ashore or near shore, John
can look after himself and doesn’t need a truck to carry him out of our
sight. Just the same I’d give a lot to know the secret of their putting
it over on us.”

“I’ve often wondered if those boys—Tom and Frank—weren’t right about
that strange conversation they overheard,” ruminated Mr. Henderson. “I’m
morally certain they were all right in their cross bearings with their
loops, although I didn’t tell them so—and yet we found nothing there.
Have you asked the boys if they’ve heard anything more of it lately?”

“No, but I will,” Mr. Pauling replied. “They’ve been so busy with this
new idea I expect they’ve forgotten all about it. I promised I’d go down
to see their— Hello, there’s the phone. Wonder who ’tis.”

Leaning forward, Mr. Pauling drew the extension phone towards him,
lifted the receiver and placed it at his ear.

“Yes, this is Mr. Pauling speaking,” he said. Then his face blanched,
his cigar dropped from his fingers and in anxious, frightened tones he
cried, “What’s that you say? Frank! What’s that? Tom under water!
Calling for help! Having a fight with—with what? Never mind! Calling
through the radio! Yes, I’ll be down instantly!”

Slamming the receiver on its hook Mr. Pauling leaped to his feet.

“It’s Frank!” he cried. “Says Tom’s calling for help from under water.
Lord knows what’s up! Send Jameson and a bunch of men. Order a patrol
down. Rawlins’ dock, foot of 28th. You know the place. Come yourself,
too!”

Jerking open a drawer, Mr. Pauling grabbed up a heavy revolver, shoved
it into his pocket, dashed through the door and as he passed the
supposed janitor gave a terse order. “Get inside!” he exclaimed,
“Henderson needs you.” The next instant he was plunging down the stairs.
With a bound he cleared the last few steps, hurtled like a football
player through the pedestrians on the sidewalk, leaped into his waiting
car and the next instant was violating every traffic law as he drove
madly through the streets. Once only did he slacken speed when, as he
rounded the corner, he caught a glimpse of one of his men and with a
gesture summoned him. Instantly, the man obeyed, leaped on the running
board and as the machine again darted ahead clambered in beside Mr.
Pauling.

Before Mr. Pauling’s footsteps had sounded on the stairs, before the
secret service man in the janitor’s overalls could dodge inside the
room, Mr. Henderson was talking over a private wire to the nearest
police station. Ten seconds later, he was rushing downstairs with the
erstwhile janitor at his heels and hard on the wake of Mr. Pauling’s car
his runabout went tearing in the same direction.

As they swung from Fourth Avenue into 28th St., gaping crowds lined the
sidewalks craning their necks and peering down the street where, far
ahead, the police patrol was startling the neighborhood with its
clanging bell as it followed the lead of Mr. Pauling’s car.

What had happened, what danger was menacing his boy, Mr. Pauling could
not guess. But that Tom was in deadly peril he felt sure. Frank’s
agonized tones proved that, and while his incoherent, stammering words
carried no explanation Mr. Pauling knew that his son was calling for aid
from under the water, that something terrible had occurred. Through his
mind had instantly flashed the threat of the bandit chief, the threat to
make him sweat blood if he continued his investigations. Could it be
that? Had the thugs captured or attacked Tom to injure his father? And
where was Rawlins? With nerves already strained from overwork and
failure to accomplish what the government demanded of him, Mr. Pauling,
who was noted for his self-possession, his calmness and clear-headedness
in the most trying and perilous moments, was now mad with fear and his
teeth actually chattered with nervousness. His car, racing at break-neck
speed, seemed almost to crawl. Every corner seemed to be purposely
blocked by traffic. He thought he had never seen so many persons
crossing the streets, so many slow-moving, horse-drawn vehicles impeding
his progress. He cursed aloud, handled his levers with savage jerks,
gritted his teeth and mentally prayed he would not be too late. Now,
behind him, he could hear the clanging, oncoming patrol truck—he knew
Henderson had lost no time. Before him lay the end of the street, the
river and the docks. With a reckless twist he swung the car into the
waterfront street, took the turn on two wheels, drove it diagonally,
regardless of cursing truck-men, across the cobbled road, and with
squealing brakes, brought it to a skidding stop by Rawlins’ dock. Before
it had lost headway he had leaped out, the detective at his side, and as
he burst into the boys’ workshop a crowd of blue-clad policemen were
jumping from the still moving patrol and were crowding at his heels.




CHAPTER VII

THE CRY FROM THE DEPTHS


Henry watched Tom’s head disappear, he saw the little silvery bubbles
rising, for an instant he could distinguish the darker shadow in the
water which marked his friend, and then nothing but the rippling green
surface of the river was visible through the open trapdoor in the floor
of the dock. He and Frank were alone, Tom and Rawlins were beneath the
river, and yet, down there at the bottom of the gurgling water, the
unseen two could hear every word spoken in the room above. It was
marvelous, fantastic and almost incredible. But even more wonderful and
impossible events were about to take place. Frank had already heard
Tom’s parting words over the set, although not a sound had issued from
his helmet, and now, with the others under the water, Frank was again
talking.

“Yes, I can hear you finely,” he said. “Say, it’s wonderful. Where are
you? Right under the dock? I’m going to let Henry talk to you. I feel as
if I were dreaming!”

As Henry listened at the set and Tom’s words came to his ears he
actually jumped, for he had never expected the words to come as plainly
and distinctly as if Tom had been in the room with him and talking to
him direct.

“That you, Henry?” came Tom’s voice. “Gee, but it’s great. I can hear
you just as well as if I were up there. Does my voice sound loud?”

“Loud as if you were standing alongside of me,” Henry assured him. “I
can’t believe you’re really under water.”

So, for some time, the three boys and Rawlins conversed, chatting and
laughing, expressing their wonder and delight in boyish expletives and
overjoyed at finding their plans and their work had proved such an
immense success.

“We’re going off a ways,” announced Tom, at last. “Mr. Rawlins wants to
find out how far away we can hear and send. We’re going to walk down the
river. You keep talking and after we’ve gone a few hundred yards we’ll
call you. If you don’t reply that you heard us we’ll keep walking back
and trying until you do get us. Then we’ll know our range.”

For a time, the two boys on the dock kept up a steady conversation with
Tom and Rawlins, and, much to their surprise, the sounds of their
friends’ voices continued as loud as when they were directly under the
dock.

“It’s a funny thing,” remarked Frank during a lull in the under-sea
conversation, “I thought they’d get out of range very soon. I never
would have believed that these little fifty-meter waves could carry that
far with only a two-foot grid for an aërial. The water must be a heap
better for waves than the air.”

Then there was an interval when no sounds came in and Frank was about to
call to Tom when, to his ears, came a suppressed “Wha—wha” followed by a
hoarse “Sssh!”

Whether Rawlins had intended this for Tom or himself Frank did not know,
but he decided that, for some unknown reason, the diver wished silence
and so wisely refrained from speaking.

“I would like to know what Mr. Rawlins wanted to be quiet for,” said
Frank, holding his hand over the mouthpiece of his microphone. “But I
suppose there’s some good reason for it.”

Scarcely had he ceased speaking when he was startled by a sharp
exclamation of surprise from Tom.

So unexpected was it that Frank responded involuntarily. “What’s that
you said?” he asked, exactly as though Tom had been there in the room.
But there was no audible reply, merely some faint sounds like subdued
whispers, followed by silence.

“Gee, there’s something mighty funny going on!” exclaimed Frank,
addressing Henry. “Tom said ‘Gosh’ something and then, when I answer he
doesn’t say a thing—just some little sounds like whispers. Say, I _do_
wonder what they’re up to!”

“Oh, I expect they’re trying to see if they can talk together without
your hearing them,” suggested Henry. “Probably that’s why Mr. Rawlins
told you to be quiet.”

“Well, I’m going to find out,” declared Frank. “They’ve no right to keep
us wondering like this.”

“Hello!” he cried into the microphone. “What on earth’s the matter? I
haven’t heard a word from you two for five minutes. Can you hear me?”

But instead of Tom’s voice in reply Frank was amazed to hear thick,
guttural words rapidly spoken, and among them he made out only one that
he understood, the name “Oleander.”

“Henry!” exclaimed Frank, speaking in hushed tones as if he feared being
overheard, “Henry, there’s that fellow talking again—the one you and Mr.
Rawlins heard—talking in Dutch or something!”

Then the strange voices ceased and very faintly and indistinctly Frank
heard Tom’s voice asking,

“What does it mean?”

Frank was puzzled. “What does what mean?” he inquired into the
microphone. But the reply, if Tom made one, was drowned out and confused
by Rawlins’ voice. Frank could not distinguish all the words, but he
knew from the sounds and intonations that Tom and the diver were
discussing some matter between them and he refrained from interrupting.

Then the voices ceased and Frank called, begging Tom to explain matters,
asking if anything was wrong. But for a moment there was no reply and he
wondered if his voice could be heard.

Then to his ears came Tom’s familiar “Gosh!” a few unintelligible words
and a shrill whistle, followed by Rawlins’ voice. Part of it Frank could
not catch but as he strained his ears he distinctly heard Rawlins
exclaim:

“We’re in a dangerous place! Come on. Let me go first!”

Frank’s face paled. “Jehoshaphat!” he exclaimed to Henry who, realizing
that something mysterious was taking place beneath the river, was
bending close. “Jehoshaphat! They’re in danger! Say, what _can_ it be?
Maybe they’re caught in quicksand or a current or under a boat.”

Pleadingly, with fright and worry expressed in his tones, Frank begged
Tom to reply, to tell him what was wrong, what the danger was. For a
space he waited anxiously for his chum’s reply and then, at last, it
came.

“It’s all right,” called Tom. “Don’t worry. Stop talking and just
listen!”

Frank turned to Henry and disconnected the microphone by throwing off a
switch to make sure that no sound could be sent.

“I guess they’re all right,” he said. “But I’m worried just the same.
Why should he want me to be quiet and just listen. Oh, I _do_ wish
they’d come back.”

“There’s those foreign words again,” he announced presently, “and, say—I
didn’t think of it before—there are two talking now.”

Then followed silence, not a sound, not even a hum or buzz of
interference greeted his ears and anxiously he listened, half fearful
that some awful casualty had happened to Tom and Rawlins out there
somewhere under the turbid waters of the river.

The moments passed terribly slowly to the two boys and then Frank again
gave a start as he heard Tom ejaculate “Gosh!” followed by some rapid
low-spoken words, only one of which Frank could catch—the word “wreck.”

“That’s it,” he announced to Henry with a sigh of relief. “They’ve found
a wreck. Gee! perhaps they’ve found treasure.”

Henry laughed gayly. “Oh, that’s good!” he exclaimed. “Treasure in the
East River! You must think you’re down in the West Indies or somewhere.”

“Well, I don’t see what’s so awful funny about finding a wreck or
treasure in the East River,” declared Frank petulantly. “Lots of boats
have sunk here and why shouldn’t one of ’em have treasure on it? I don’t
mean millions of dollars worth of gold or jewels of course—like pirates’
treasure—but there might be a box of money or something.”

“You’re way off,” replied Henry. “They wouldn’t leave a wreck here for a
week. They’d get it up or blow it up right away. Why, a wreck here would
block the channel. No, sir, you heard ’em wrong.”

“I did not!” stoutly maintained Frank. “I know Tom said something about
a wreck. I don’t care what you say. How do you know there isn’t some old
wreck out there somewhere? It may have been there for years; how would
any one know?”

“Why, Mr. Rawlins and Tom aren’t the only divers who ever went down
here,” insisted Henry. “The city and the government and wrecking
companies and contractors have divers going down all the time. I’ve
watched ’em working heaps of times. Father’s a construction engineer and
I know he always has divers at work around New York. Some of ’em would
have found a wreck if it had been there.”

“Well, anyway we’ll know pretty soon,” said Frank. “They can’t stay down
much longer. They must——”

With a startled cry his words ended and his scared, pale face told Henry
that something dreadful had happened. Ringing in Frank’s ears, shrill,
filled with deadly terror, the shriek of a boy frightened almost out of
his senses, came Tom’s despairing cry—a wordless, awful scream.

“What’s the matter?” Frank forced his paralyzed tongue to form the
words. “Tom! Oh, Tom! What’s wrong? Why did you yell?”

“Help! Send for help!” rang back the answer. “It’s awful”—followed by
words so filled with mortal terror that Frank could make nothing of them
and then—“Get Dad! Get the police!”

Frank waited to hear no more. Dropping the receivers he leaped across
the room, jerked the receiver from the telephone and frantically called
for Mr. Pauling’s number. But in his fright and terror, his fear for
Tom, his hurried words were a mere jumble to the operator.

“Can’t hear you,” came the girl’s voice. “What number did you say?”

Again Frank yelled. “Watkins 6636!” he cried, striving to make his words
clear.

“Watkins 3666?” inquired the girl, and Frank could almost hear her
masticating gum.

“No, 6636!” he screamed. “Hurry!”

The seconds that followed seemed like years to Frank. Across his brain
flashed a thousand fears and he suffered untold agonies as he stood
there, sweat pouring from his face. What if Mr. Pauling should not be in
his office? Suppose the line were busy? What if the girl got the wrong
number? How slow she was! Had she forgotten the call? Would no one
answer? And then, when he was sure he must have waited hours, his heart
gave a great leap, a load seemed lifted from his mind as he heard Mr.
Pauling’s cheery, deep-throated:

“Hello! Who is it?”

“It’s Frank!” fairly screamed the boy. “Tom’s in trouble! I don’t know
what—he’s under the river—with Mr. Rawlins. He wants help! Sent for you!
Wants police!”

Then, when at last Mr. Pauling had succeeded in grasping the message and
in excited tones had shouted, “All right, I’ll be down instantly!” Frank
sank limply to the floor.

But the next second he was up and at the table by the radio set.

“Have you heard anything?” he inquired anxiously of Henry, who had taken
up the receivers and had been listening while Frank called Mr. Pauling.

“Not a word,” replied Henry.

“Oh, gosh! Oh, I _do_ wish they’d hurry!” exclaimed Frank. “Oh, they’re
terribly slow! And how _will_ they get to him? How do we know where he
is?”

Slowly the minutes dragged by. Each tick of the cheap clock on the table
seemed to spell Tom’s fate and still no sound came from beneath the
river. Once, Henry thought he caught a word, an exclamation half
suppressed, but he could not be sure. He had called Tom, but no reply
had come. Were the two dead? Had some awful calamity overtaken them at
the bottom of the river? Was this to be the tragic end of all their
experiments? Was Tom’s death the reward for their success?

Then, from far up the street, came the clamor of a bell, and the screech
of a motor horn sounded from nearer at hand.

At the same instant Henry uttered a glad, joyous cry. “They’re all
right!” he shouted. “I just heard Rawlins tell Tom to go ahead!”

With a quick motion, he threw in the switch and at that moment Frank’s
ringing shout of joy filled the room.

But before Henry could call to Tom, before he could utter a sound,
hurrying, tramping footsteps echoed from the dock, the door burst
inwards with a bang and into the room leaped Mr. Pauling. Beside him was
a heavy-jawed man with drawn pistol and over his shoulder through the
open doorway the boys saw the visored caps and blue coats of police.

“They’re safe!” yelled Frank, trying to make his voice heard above the
excited, shouted interrogations of Mr. Pauling. “We just heard them.”

Mr. Pauling leaped towards the open trapdoor, the police crowding at his
heels. Henry dropped his instruments and joined them and all crowded
forward.

A shadow seemed to hover in the dull water and a slender affair of wire
broke the surface.

“They’re here!” screamed Frank.

“Thank God!” echoed Mr. Pauling fervently.

Hardly had the words of thankfulness left his lips when he uttered a
startled cry, and, throwing himself face downward at the edge of the
trapdoor, plunged his arms into the swirling water. The dim shadowy form
of the diver whose helmet had just appeared, had swayed to one side; his
hands, clutching the upper rungs of the ladder, had loosened their
grasp, his arms had wavered and had taken a feeble stroke as if trying
to swim and from the receiver on the table had issued a despairing cry,
a choking, gurgling groan, ending in a gasp.

Whether the swaying, half-floating form was Tom or Rawlins, Mr. Pauling
could not know, for in the suits identity was lost, but trained as he
was through long years in a service where to act instinctively meant
life or death, he instantly dropped to the floor and clutched at the dim
figure beneath. Had he delayed for the fraction of a second he would
have been too late, but, as it was, his fingers closed on one of the
diver’s wrists. The next instant he had grasped the other arm and a
moment later, with Henderson’s aid, he had dragged the dripping, limp
form onto the dock and the two men were cutting the suit and helmet from
the unconscious form. But they already knew it was Tom. The boy’s limbs
projecting from the short tunic had proved this and Mr. Pauling’s face
was white and strained as they dragged the khaki-colored garment and the
helmet from his son.

“Thank Heaven Rawlins fixed those suits so he could not breathe flames!”
exclaimed Mr. Henderson, as the helmet was drawn from Tom’s head. “He’s
breathing, Pauling!”

As he spoke, there was a disturbance at the door and the police stood
aside as an ambulance surgeon pushed his way hurriedly into the room. He
bent over Tom in silence for an instant and then he glanced up and Mr.
Pauling read good news in his eyes.

“Don’t worry!” he exclaimed. “He’s not hurt. Hasn’t breathed any water.
Just in a faint, I think. He’ll be around in a moment. Hello! Here’s
another!”

While he had been speaking, another helmeted form had appeared, dragging
a limp figure, and, holding to the latter’s legs still another diver was
climbing up the ladder.

“What the dickens!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson glancing up. “Who the devil
are these? Two divers go down and four come up!”

Dropping the apparently lifeless diver on the floor Rawlins dragged off
his helmet, glanced about in a puzzled way and then, without waiting to
ask questions exclaimed, “Here, Doctor! Quick! Get at this chap!”

At his words, the doctor and his assistant sprang to the side of the
form on the floor and rapidly stripped off his helmet and, as the man’s
face was exposed, even the hardened surgeons could not restrain a gasp
of horror and amazement. The face was horrible to look upon. It was
scorched, seared, blackened, the eyebrows burned off, the eyelids
hanging in shreds, the sightless eyes staring white and opaque like
those of a boiled fish. Rawlins gave a single glance at him.

“Oh, Lord!” he ejaculated. “He’s done for! He’s had flames from the
chemicals in his helmet! Poor devil, he _must_ have suffered!”

Then, turning to Mr. Henderson, he exclaimed.

“Better get the suit off this other chap. Don’t know who he is, but he’s
something rotten! Guess it’s a good thing the police are here.”

As Mr. Henderson and Rawlins stepped towards the man who still wore his
suit, the fellow raised an arm and leaped, or tried to leap, away, quite
forgetting the heavy, lead-soled boots he wore. The result was that he
tripped and fell heavily and, before Rawlins or Henderson could reach
him, he was twisting and rolling towards the gaping trapdoor. An instant
more and he would have been in the water, but just as he reached the
edge of the opening, Frank, who with Henry had been staring open-mouthed
and dumbfounded at the surprising and incomprehensible events taking
place so rapidly before them, sprang forward and slammed shut the door
which, in falling, pinned the fellow’s legs beneath it. Then, as if
fearing the man might wriggle free, the excited boy jumped upon the
heavy planks. But there was no fight or attempt to escape left in the
fellow and, as several policemen rushed forward and seized him, he
submitted without the least resistance and a moment later had been
stripped of his suit.

Once more it was Mr. Henderson’s turn to be amazed, for, as he caught
sight of the man’s face, as he saw the closely-cropped, bullet-shaped
head, the tiny, close-set piggish eyes and the big loose-lipped mouth he
could scarcely believe his eyes and uttered a sharp exclamation of
wonder.

“Put the bracelets on him and don’t give him a chance!” he ordered the
police and, as the shining irons snapped with a click about the man’s
wrists and the officers led him to one side, the small piglike eyes
glared at Mr. Henderson with such mingled hatred, brutality and ferocity
that the boys shivered.

Rawlins was now bending above Tom beside Mr. Pauling and when, a moment
later, the boy took a long, deep breath and his eyes fluttered open, the
anxious, strained expression upon the diver’s face vanished.

“I’ll say he’s a good sport!” he ejaculated. “Poor kid! Don’t wonder he
went clean off! And he saved my life too—with his under-sea radio at
that!”




CHAPTER VIII

ASTOUNDING DISCOVERIES


Perhaps it may seem as if the boys had met with success too easily and
had accomplished far more in a short time than would be possible. But as
a matter of fact they had encountered innumerable difficulties, had made
numbers of mistakes, had been faced with failure or negative results
time after time and would have given up in despair had it not been for
the encouragement of Mr. Pauling and Mr. Henderson and the never-ceasing
optimism of Rawlins. Indeed, Rawlins had done fully as much to make the
under-sea radio a success as had the boys.

Although he did not or could not become an adept at radio and insisted
that it was all Greek to him, yet he was a born inventor and a
mechanical genius. He had been diving since he was a mere boy, his
father and grandfather had made deep-sea diving their profession, and he
felt as much at home under water as on land. Hence, to him, there was
nothing mysterious or baffling about the depths and he could see no
valid reason why anything that could be accomplished on shore should not
be accomplished equally well under water. He had distinguished himself
by devising a submarine apparatus for taking motion pictures at the
bottom of the sea and it was while engaged in making a sub-sea film that
he had invented and perfected his remarkable self-contained diving suit.
To him, with his experience, the shortcomings of the suit—the danger of
the chemicals flaming up if they came in contact with water—were of no
moment, for, as he had explained to the boys, he automatically shut the
valve if for any reason he removed his lips from the breathing tube, the
action being as natural and unconscious as holding one’s breath when
swimming under water.

But he at once realized that if the suits were to become a commercial or
practical thing, or if the under-sea radio was to be used, it would be
necessary to make the apparatus absolutely safe and fool proof. He
therefore set to work at once to devise an entirely new system and
absolutely refused to allow the boys to don suits and go down until he
had thoroughly tested out and proved the new equipment. It was not an
easy matter, but in the end he succeeded, and, risking his own life in
the experiment, he gave the safety suit a most severe tryout. It
fulfilled his greatest expectations and feeling sure that no matter how
careless or inexperienced the wearer might be there could be no
accident, as far as the suit and oxygen generator were concerned, he was
satisfied.

He freely expressed his satisfaction and his indebtedness to the boys,
insisting that if it had not been for them and their radio he never
would have improved the suit and made it practical for any one to use
without danger. In addition, there were innumerable other changes and
alterations which had to be made to adapt the suits to radio work, and
so, by the time the boys were ready to make their tests, they were using
suits which bore but little resemblance to those Rawlins had first shown
them.

Upon the helmets were the odd grids of wire at right angles like some
great crown; the compressed air receptacles containing the sending sets
were attached to the shoulders like old-fashioned knapsacks, and the
front of the helmet resembled some grotesque monster’s head with the
protuberance which contained the compact little receiving set like a
huge goiter. Indeed, as Henry had remarked when he first saw Rawlins
appearing dripping from the river, they looked like weird and fearful
sea monsters. So, if the reader imagines that the boys and Rawlins had
had an easy time or that their success was of the phenomenal kind which
occurs only in fiction, he is greatly mistaken and the impression is due
wholly to the fact that their failures and troubles have not been
chronicled.

And now, having explained this, let us return to the boys when, their
sub-sea sending set complete, the test was about to take place. As Tom
sank beneath the water and slowly descended the ladder he was more
excited and thrilled than ever before, for he was about to try an
experiment which, if successful, would mark a new era in radio telephony
and he was keyed up to a high pitch when at last he dropped from the
final rung of the ladder and settled, half-floating like some big,
ungainly fish upon the river bottom. Through the half opaque green water
he could see the irregular, grotesquely distorted and hazy form of
Rawlins appearing gigantic and phantomlike. He might have been fifteen
or fifty feet away, for despite the fact that Tom had been down several
times he could never accustom himself to the deceptive effects of
distance under water and when he stretched his hand towards the
indistinct figure he gave an involuntary start when he found Rawlins
within arm’s length. As his hand touched the clammy rubber surface he
uttered an exclamation of surprise and the next instant gave a joyful
yell, for at his ejaculation he had heard Rawlins’ voice in his ears
asking, “What’s wrong?”

“For heaven’s sake, don’t yell so!” came Rawlins’ words in response to
Tom’s, “Hurrah, it’s working!”

“I’ll tell the world it’s working!” continued the diver, “but don’t
shout. I’m talking in my lowest tones. Here, how do you like this?”

Tom’s ears were almost split as a thunderous bellow filled his helmet,
and involuntarily he clapped his hands to the outside of his helmet over
his ears.

“That’s a lesson,” he said in his lowest tones. “Sorry I didn’t know,
Mr. Rawlins. It won’t happen again. I guess these helmets act like
sounding boards or something. Hello, there’s Frank’s voice.”

Clear and distinct they could hear Frank asking if there was trouble and
Tom barely checked another outburst as he realized that the boys on
shore could talk with them and could hear what was going on under the
water.

“We can hear everything you say,” went on Frank’s voice. “Can you hear
us and each other?”

“Gee, you bet we can!” replied Tom. “Isn’t this just great?”

“Say, are you whispering?” inquired Frank. “I can hardly hear your
voice.”

“No, but don’t shout so,” answered Tom. “Down here everything just
roars. We have to talk low or we’ll deafen each other. I’ll bet we don’t
need head phones on our ears under water.”

“Henry’s going to talk with you,” Frank announced, “he’s just crazy to
try.”

For the next half hour the boys talked back and forth between the
workshop and the bottom of the river and then Rawlins and Tom ascended
the ladder and removed their suits.

For fully five minutes, the boys pranced, danced, hurrahed, yelled,
laughed and made such a racket celebrating their success that it was a
wonder the river police did not break in thinking a horde of Indians had
taken possession of the dock. And if the truth must be told, Rawlins was
just about as excited and acted as crazily as the youngsters.

But at last they calmed down and Frank, mad to go down, donned Tom’s
suit.

“Try it without the phones,” Tom advised him. “Then you can talk loudly
enough to be heard up here without deafening Mr. Rawlins.”

To Tom, listening at the set on the dock, it seemed little short of
uncanny to hear Rawlins and Frank talking from under the water, and
indeed, it impressed him as even more remarkable than hearing those on
shore when he was below the surface.

Both Rawlins and Frank assured him that the sets worked far better
without the receivers on their heads, and even when Frank spoke in his
loudest tones Rawlins replied that it did not deafen him as before.

“Now let’s try tuning, Frank,” said Tom. “I’m going to vary my wave
length and see if you can pick it up. Then change yours and I’ll see if
I can get you.”

As Tom spoke, he altered the sending waves slightly and breathlessly
waited. Presently Frank’s voice came in.

“Got it!” he exclaimed. “Had a bit of trouble at first, but it’s all
right now. Now see if you can get this.”

As he spoke his words ended in a high, shrill squeal, but an instant
later, as Tom turned the knob on his tuner, the words suddenly returned
in a most startling way, the squeal seeming to change magically into
words.

“Hurrah, I got it!” cried Tom jubilantly. “Come on up, Frank, Henry
wants a chance.”

“You’ve certainly struck a wonderful thing here,” declared Rawlins, when
he and Henry came up and had removed their suits. “How far do you
suppose it will work?”

“That’s something we’ll have to find out,” replied Tom. “But the sounds
come so loudly I’ll bet it’s good for a long distance. Somehow or other
we get sound a lot louder inside a helmet than outside. I don’t just get
the reason, but I expect it’s either because the whole air vibrates to
the diaphragm of the receivers inside the helmet and no sound waves are
lost or else because the helmet itself acts like a sounding board or
maybe there are some sort of amplified waves set up.”

“I guess it’s the air being inclosed,” said Rawlins. “When I used to
wear a regular suit and used an ordinary phone under water it was the
same way, but I never thought of it in connection with radio. The whole
thing gets me, there’s millions in this if we can patent it. Let’s go
down once more and give her a real tryout. We’ll take a hike down river
a few hundred yards and see if the boys get us. If they don’t we’ll come
back and keep trying and if they do we’ll go on down as far as we can.
Then, if we find it’s O. K. we’ll try to get your folks to let you go
down to Nassau and we’ll show the world, I’ll bet.”

“That’s a good idea,” agreed Tom. “You keep listening and now and then
talking, Frank, and as soon as we lose your voice we’ll send and then
walk back until we get you again. That way we can find if we can hear
farther than you can or whether it’s the other way about.”

Donning their suits, Tom and Rawlins once more descended the ladder and
half-floating, half-walking turned downstream. Rawlins had already
cautioned Tom to keep close to his side and to hold to his hand, for,
with the mud stirred up by their feet and carried by the current with
them, it was impossible to see more than a few feet and Rawlins knew the
danger that lay in becoming separated.

Even with the radio connecting them with the boys on the surface Tom
might easily get confused and hopelessly lost if he strayed or was
carried from sight of Rawlins and while Tom knew that, by turning on
more oxygen, he could bob to the surface, yet danger lurked in this as
he might emerge in the path of some steamer or motor boat and be run
down or torn to pieces with the propellers. As long as they kept close
to shore, following the docks and piers, there was no danger, for the
only vessels in the vicinity were canal boats and barges which were not
in use, the piers for several hundred yards having been used merely for
storage and as warehouses for some time. Moreover, by keeping under the
docks they were perfectly safe and Rawlins had no intention of going out
into the channel with its swift currents and constantly passing tugs,
ferryboats and small craft. So, half feeling his way and moving by the
diver’s intuitive sixth sense of direction and holding to Tom’s hand,
Rawlins moved slowly down the river.

Frank’s words were constantly in their ears and now and then they
replied, and somehow to Tom there was a most remarkable sensation of
making no progress whatsoever. There was nothing visible by which to
gauge their motion and, as the voice through the set continued to sound
exactly the same and did not grow fainter with distance, he seemed to be
standing still, although exerting himself and constantly stepping or
rather pushing himself forward. He was so intent on this and so
interested in the novel experience that he scarcely realized that
Frank’s voice had suddenly grown faint and was interrupted by an odd
buzzing sound which instantly brought back the memory of the sounds they
had heard when listening to the mysterious speaker with their loop
aërials. He was just about to speak and ask Frank if he could hear when
he felt Rawlins jerk his arm. He floundered forward and the next instant
was dragged between the spiles of a dock where the water was dark with
shadows.

“What,—what—” he began, but instantly checked his words as a low “Ssh!”
from Rawlins reached his ears. Not knowing what had happened or why
Rawlins had suddenly acted in this strange manner, confused and
bewildered, Tom peered about through the murky water. At first he saw
nothing save the surrounding spiles, seeming to move and sway in dim,
shadowy forms—the bottom of a canal boat with yard-long streamers of sea
weeds waving from its barnacle-encrusted planks; a piece of trailing,
rusty cable; a few rotting, water-soaked timbers protruding from the
mud; and a shapeless mass which might have been almost any piece of
jetsam cast into the river. Then like phantom shapes, so indistinct,
hazy and formless that he was not sure they were not shadows in the
water, he saw two figures—two moving things that, for a brief instant,
he thought must be huge, dull-green fish nosing about the mud. And then,
as he gazed fixedly at them from between the spiles, a strange
unreasoning fear clutched at his heart and he felt an odd, prickly
sensation on his scalp and at the back of his neck, for the moving,
sinister, unnatural things were approaching, moving noiselessly, slowly,
but certainly towards him as though they had scented his presence and
were bent on hunting him out.

What were they? What strange, unknown, impossible sea monsters were
these? He was frightened, shaking, and in his terror had forgotten
completely about the radio outfit. Glad, indeed, was Tom that Rawlins
was beside him, that the diver was armed—for Rawlins, he knew, never
went down without a hatchet in his belt ready for use in case of an
emergency such as fouling a rope or timber. But why didn’t Rawlins
speak? Why had he ordered him to be silent? The sea monsters could not
hear; what was the reason?

And then, so suddenly that it came as a shock, he realized that the
approaching forms, the grotesque shapes, were no sea creatures, no
gigantic savage fish, but men! Men in diving suits much like their own.
Men walking in the odd, half-sprawling, half-floating, forward-leaning
posture he knew so well. But great as was Tom’s relief at this discovery
his wonderment was doubly increased. Who were they and what were they
doing here? Why had Rawlins drawn him into hiding? What did it all mean?
Then, just as he was about to disregard Rawlins’ whispered orders and
ask, the two figures disappeared. Without reason, without warning, they
vanished from sight as if by magic.

So dumbfounded was Tom that involuntarily he uttered an ejaculation of
surprise and fairly jumped when, faint but clear, he heard Frank ask,
“What’s that you said?”

But before he could reply, Rawlins was speaking. “Come on!” he
whispered, his voice being as low as if he feared the others might hear
and, quite forgetting that he was under water, cut off from all
conversation with other human beings save the boys. “Come on, I don’t
know who they are, but there’s something funny. They’ve got suits like
mine and the Lord knows who they are or how they got ’em. I’m going to
find out where they went.”

Slipping between the spiles with their slimy, weed-grown surfaces,
Rawlins, holding to Tom’s hand, struggled forward into the lighter
water. Beside them rose a dark wall of masonry and reaching this Rawlins
proceeded to feel his way along it. Before they had traveled ten feet
the diver uttered a sharp ejaculation. Beside them in the wall, loomed a
huge, black hole, the mouth of a great sewer.

“They went in here,” whispered Rawlins. “Come on!”

A moment later they were in utter blackness, feeling their way forward
along the walls.

And now, very thin and faint, Tom heard Frank’s voice again. “What on
earth’s the matter?” he asked. “I haven’t heard a word from you two for
five minutes. Can you hear me?”

Tom was about to answer for they were evidently at nearly the limit of
receiving range and his mouth opened, his lips formed the words of his
reply, but no sound issued from them. Clear, loud and harsh, guttural
words rang in Tom’s ears. This was not Frank’s voice nor Henry’s; the
words were not even English. Amazed and uncomprehending Tom was
speechless and then, among the incomprehensible foreign syllables, came
a word he recognized, the one word “Oleander!”

Instantly he knew that by some strange freak, by some mystifying
coincidence he was again hearing that unknown man to whom he had so
often listened. It seemed strange, weird, uncanny to have it coming to
his ears here in the old disused sewer, but after all, he reflected, why
not? Rawlins had heard it once before, there was nothing remarkable
about it and he was on the point of asking his companion if he had heard
and of trying to tell Frank, when once more his words were stayed.
Before him the stygian darkness suddenly grew light, a brilliant beam
stabbed down from overhead and through the strangely illuminated water
Tom saw the two men in diving suits standing beneath a square opening
down which a ladder was being thrust. But why, he vaguely wondered, was
the water so transparent? How was it that he could now see clearly for
many yards? And then, with a start, it dawned upon him that he was not
looking through water, that there was nothing between him and the trap
save air. He was standing with head and shoulders out of water.

And now the gruff, guttural words were once more beating in his ears and
the next instant he saw the strange divers seize a dangling rope, tipped
with a great iron hook, dip it under the water and then, as the hook
again ascended, he saw a dripping, cigar-shaped object like a torpedo
slowly rise from the water and disappear in the opening above. Close
behind it the two divers followed up the ladder, the ladder was drawn
up, the light snapped out and the next instant Tom and Rawlins were once
more in absolute darkness.

“What does it all mean?” exclaimed Tom, finding his voice at last.

“What does what—” commenced Frank’s voice, only to be overwhelmed and
drowned out by Rawlins’ louder words.

“Search me!” replied the latter. “Something rotten going on here. Don’t
know what, but I intend to find out. Did you hear them talking?”

“Hear them?” replied Tom not understanding. “Of course not. But I heard
that same chap you heard the other day—talking Dutch or something.”

“That was them!” announced Rawlins decidedly. “Tom, they’ve got
under-sea radio, too. It’s those chaps we’ve been hearing, I’m beginning
to get it. That word Oleander. That’s a password—a countersign. Just as
soon as they spoke it the door opened. There’s some deep mystery here.
What the deuce that torpedolike affair was I don’t know. Perhaps they’re
trying to blow up some building. This sewer is under a busy part of the
city. Hear those trucks and surface cars overhead?”

Absolutely dumbfounded, heedless of Frank’s insistent but weak voice in
his ears, striving to grasp all this astounding statement of Rawlins’,
Tom stood speechless for a moment. And then an idea flashed through his
mind.

“Gosh!” he exclaimed. “Say, Mr. Rawlins, they’ll find us. If they’ve got
radio they can hear us too! Say, perhaps they’re listening to us now.
Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Rawlins’ surprised whistle came shrilly to Tom’s ears.

“You’re right!” replied the diver. “We’re in a dangerous place. Come on.
Let me go first.”

Crowding past Tom, Rawlins hurried as fast as the constantly deepening
water and the darkness would permit and presently, though to Tom it
seemed hours, a lighter space appeared ahead and a few moments later
they once more were standing at the bottom of the river.

They had turned to retrace their steps towards their own dock and were
following along the old wall when once more they were halted in their
tracks. Again to their ears, borne to them by the radio waves, came the
harsh foreign words.

So close did the words sound in their ears that instinctively, without
stopping to think that the speakers might be hundreds of feet or even
yards distant, the two crouched back in a recess of the masonry,
flattening themselves against the slime-covered, weed-draped stones and
gazing apprehensively towards the spot where the old sewer pierced the
wall.




CHAPTER IX

THE BATTLE BENEATH THE RIVER


As they crouched there, Frank’s voice was taking on a frightened tone
and Tom could now hear it much more plainly. But Tom’s mind was filled
with the danger of being discovered and he scarcely dared reply, for
somehow, although there was no foundation for his fears, he was filled
with a terrible dread of these under-sea workers, these unknown
mysterious divers who had lifted the ominous-looking metal cylinder
through the trapdoor in the disused sewer. That, even if they heard him
and his friends, they could not trail them or locate them under water
never occurred to him. In fact, he had quite forgotten that he and
Rawlins were under water or were as invisible to others a few yards away
as other objects were to them. He felt as though he could be as easily
seen as if on land, and that, if he spoke, his words would at once
betray his whereabouts. But he also realized that Frank’s voice could be
heard by others as well as by himself and so, steeling himself to the
effort, he called back, “It’s all right. Don’t worry. Stop talking and
listen.”

Instantly, Frank’s voice ceased and Tom drew a breath of relief and then
he gulped and pressed close to Rawlins, for before him in the water, as
if attracted by the sounds of his voice, the two dim forms of the
strange divers once more appeared. For a space they remained motionless
as though listening and perspiration broke out on Tom’s forehead and
chills ran up and down his spine as he heard distinctly the sounds of
low-toned words in the same guttural tongue, and he was certain,
positive, that his voice had been heard, that the others were striving
to locate him, and that at any moment Frank or Henry might become
curious or impatient and speak. In his terrified mind he could picture
those big, sickly green, distorted beings creeping towards him, their
wide-flung arms waving uncertainly like the tentacles of a huge octopus
as they lurched forward; he could imagine the fixed, expressionless
stare of those great goggle-eyed glasses in the squat neckless helmets
and, as the current caused light and shadow to waver and change, the
figures seemed actually moving towards his hiding place.

It was terrible; he no longer thought of them as fellow men, no longer
looked upon them as human beings; his fears had transformed them to
submarine monsters, weird, uncanny, intelligent but bloodthirsty
creatures, and so great was the tension, so fearful the vision conjured
up by his overwrought imagination that he would have screamed had his
mouth not been parched and dry and incapable of uttering a sound. It was
like a nightmare, a dream in which one is powerless to move or to cry
out; where one cannot compel muscles or mind to function; where one
feels that it cannot be real, cannot be possible and yet is filled with
sweating, blood-curdling terror that it is. And then, after what seemed
hours of torture, but was barely ten seconds from the time the men had
emerged from the sewer, their voices ceased and to Tom’s inexpressible
relief they appeared to fade into the murky green water. They were
moving away, soundlessly, mysteriously, without visible effort, and Tom
noticed with his fright-filled eyes that above them was poised an
indistinct, cigar-shaped object, the same torpedolike affair he had seen
lifted from the sewer, and he realized that somehow, by some means, the
men were dragging this along with them into the dim, green distance.

He was aroused by Rawlins’ whisper and a touch on his arm.

“I’m going to follow,” were the barely audible words. “No danger. Must
see where they go. Come on.”

Recovering from his fright, now that the divers were retreating, and
rather reassured by the sound of his companion’s voice and words Tom
moved forward from the wall but still grasping Rawlins’ hand.

They could not see the figures before them, for the muck stirred up by
the others’ passage concealed them as effectually as a smoke screen, but
it also served to betray their whereabouts and to conceal Tom and
Rawlins as well. For some distance—several hundred yards Tom
thought—they moved along, following close to the wall that bounded the
shore and ever with the slowly drifting column of muddy water to guide
them.

Once or twice the murk seemed to drift away, and each time Rawlins
instantly halted, waiting to see if those they were trailing had come to
a stop, but each time the mud again rose before them and they resumed
their way.

Tom had no idea of the distance or direction they had traveled. The
effort he made to walk was his only guide and he knew that the same
effort, the same number of steps on land, would have carried him a long
way, but he also knew that under water his progress was snail-like, that
a step might carry one a few inches or several feet or not at all,
depending upon the current, and he wondered vaguely if Rawlins knew his
way, if he could find his way back, or if he intended to bob to the
surface to get his bearings when he finally decided to return to the
dock. And Tom smiled to himself as he pictured the looks of surprise,
the screams of fright which would greet their unexpected and sudden
appearance if Rawlins did this and they should bob up beside some
crowded recreation pier or ferry ship. But Rawlins had halted again.

Before them now the mud was thinning out, the water was being swept
clear of silt and Rawlins drew Tom beside him behind a huge block of
stone which had been dumped at the base of the wall. Slowly and
gradually the water cleared. It was evident that those they were
following were no longer stirring up the mud and so must have come to a
stop and, as the sediment drifted off and the dim green light filtered
through the water, Tom peered into the vast illimitable void. It was
like looking through thick green glass or like glass made half-opaque by
one’s breath upon it and for a time Tom could see nothing. Then, as the
water became still clearer, he saw the faint outlines of timbers and
spiles and a dark object looming ominously, like a cloud, which he
recognized as the bottom of some vessel. Against the lighter water over
his head, a shadow passed and the greenness quivered and wavered and he
knew a small boat was being rowed above them; but no sign could he see
of those they had been following.

Then Tom noticed something else, something that rose above the dark
bottom of the river as a darker mass, something that resembled a great
bank of mud or a reef of rock. Irregular in outline, dark green as seen
through the water, unlike anything he had ever seen, yet somehow it had
a vaguely familiar look; it did not seem quite like mud or rock of any
natural formation, but rather like some sort of boat. Yes, that was
it—like the hull of a boat—it reminded him of a picture of a sunken
wreck. Perhaps it was. Yes, now that the thought had entered his head,
he could see that it was a wreck; he could make out the stump of a mast,
the remains of deck houses, something like portions of rails. But what
was it doing here? Why should a sunken hulk be lying in the East River?
Of course it was out of the channel, it was lying partly beneath a dock
or pier and Tom noticed that the spiles of the pier sagged and that
several were broken off under water. Evidently the pier was an old one,
perhaps disused, and maybe the old hulk had been sunk during some fire
which had destroyed the pier at the same time.

All these thoughts flashed through Tom’s mind as he peered into the dim
greenness and then all were wiped from his brain as he caught a glimpse
of the two divers moving from among the spiles. Tom was as much at sea
as ever as to the distances under water. He could not tell whether the
wreck was fifty or five hundred feet away. He was not at all sure that,
if he reached out, he could not touch the old hulk or even the moving
forms. The next moment the two had reached the side of the wreck and
then, to Tom’s amazement, they seemed to disappear within it, to step
through the sides as though it were only a shadow in the water.

“Gosh,” he ejaculated unconsciously, “they went into that wreck!”

“Wreck!” came Rawlins’ whispered words. “Wreck! That’s no wreck. That’s
a submarine. That’s their hangout!”

So absolutely thunderstruck was Tom at Rawlins’ words that he could not
even reply. But now he saw that what he had mistaken for a waterlogged
sunken hulk was indeed an under-sea boat, a submarine and a big one. He
had never seen a submarine except from above water before. He had no
idea how such a craft would appear under water. He did not realize that
the narrow deck almost awash, the tiny superstructure and conning tower
which are all the landsman sees are but a very small portion of a
submarine’s whole; that out of sight, and never exposed above the
surface of the sea, is a big boat-shaped hull with rudders and
propellers; that the cigar-shaped Jules Verne type of submersible so
familiar in fiction is not a thing of fact; and that the modern
submarine if seen under water might easily be mistaken for an ordinary
vessel’s hull.

It was not at all surprising therefore that Tom had mistaken the
submerged craft for the hulk of a steamer or ship, for submarines were
the last thing in his mind and no one would have dreamed of seeing one
here beneath the surface of the East River.

Now, however, Tom could see that what he had mistaken for the stump of a
mast was the conning tower; what he had thought were shattered deck
houses and rails were the superstructure; and he could now even make out
the lateral horizontal rudders and the vertical rudder and screws.

But this made the mystery still greater. It was even more wonderful to
find a submarine here than a sunken vessel. Of course, Tom knew there
were plenty of the navy’s submarines forever knocking about, and for an
instant it occurred to him that it was one of these engaged in making
some test and that the divers whom they had seen were members of the
boat’s crew.

Then instantly he remembered the men had spoken in a foreign tongue,
that they had carried a mysterious object to the trapdoor in the sewer,
and that they had taken the same or a duplicate object from the sewer.

It was all inexplicable, puzzling, unfathomable.

Rawlins’ voice recalled him to the present.

“They’ve gone,” said the diver. “I want to find out who and what she is.
You stay here. I’ll be away only a moment.”

As he spoke, he released Tom’s hand and with a final caution for the boy
not to follow or move away, Rawlins floundered towards the submarine.

Interestedly Tom watched him. He noticed that Rawlins did not stir up
the mud and then, for the first time, he discovered that the bottom was
hard and sandy. Somehow all sense of fear and danger had left him. How
foolish he had been, to be sure! No doubt, he thought to himself, it was
the unexpected appearance of the men and their grotesque forms which had
aroused his imagination. There was Rawlins, still moving away and
looking as terrible and awesome as had the others—even more so, if
anything, with his proboscis-like helmet topped by its grid and the
container on his shoulders giving him the appearance of being
humpbacked.

He wondered how far the submarine was from where he stood. Rawlins now
seemed close to it and yet he could not possibly tell whether his friend
was really near to the craft or not. It was all most interesting, most
baffling and most unreal and dreamlike. He wondered what Frank and Henry
would think of his long silence. He wondered if they could hear him or
he could hear them. Surely there would be no danger in speaking now.
Even if those in the submarine heard him they could not tell whether it
was some one under or above the water who was speaking. Why hadn’t he
thought of that before? There never _had_ been any danger. Of course, if
these men had under-sea radio they must hear messages from those on land
as well as the boys.

In that case they would never have had suspicions if they had overheard
the boys’ conversation. They would never dream that others possessed the
apparatus and would have assumed that the speakers were on shore. There
was no danger; he was sure of it, and he was about to call to Frank when
his attention was arrested by Rawlins’ actions.

Tom had been idly watching him and had seen him reach the submarine. He
had seen Rawlins moving around the craft, evidently examining it, and he
had lost sight of him as Rawlins had slipped around the blunt bow. But
now Rawlins suddenly appeared, backing into view, waving his arms to
maintain his balance and floundering. And he held something in one hand,
something that he waved menacingly above his head, some object that
glittered even in the dull, subdued, green light.

For the space of a second, Tom was puzzled and then he knew. It was
Rawlins’ hatchet! Something or some one was attacking him and scarcely
had this knowledge flashed through Tom’s mind when, from behind the
submarine, the two figures appeared, clutching arms pawing at the water
as if swimming, bodies bent far forward, their every attitude, every
motion betokening speed, speaking of straining efforts to come within
reach of Rawlins, despite his threatening, keen-edged hatchet.

Wildly excited, filled with deadly fear, terrorized at Rawlins’ plight
as was Tom, yet through his mind ran the thought, the subconscious
feeling, that it was all unreal—a dream or a delusion. It was
unspeakably and inexpressibly uncanny to see the three men evidently
exerting every effort and yet moving so silently and slowly, seeming to
float like weightless bodies in some semi-transparent, green medium. It
reminded Tom of a slow motion picture—one of the films where a man or a
horse, leaping a hurdle, appears to float lightly as a bit of
thistledown through the air—and watching, the boy was fascinated. But
only for the briefest moment.

Scarcely had the three come within Tom’s view when Rawlins stumbled over
an upjutting stub of spiling, the hatchet flew from his hand and before
he could half rise the others were upon him.

At this, the spell was broken. Tom screamed aloud and the next instant,
like a voice from another sphere, he heard Frank speaking.

“What is the matter, Tom? What’s wrong?” came in troubled, worried
tones. “Why _did_ you yell?”

Here then was help. They were still within reach of those ashore and in
terse, excited, fear-wrung tones Tom answered.

“Help! Send for help!” he yelled, entirely forgetting that no one knew
where he was or where to send help even if help could have reached them
there under the river.

“It’s awful!” he continued. “Two men—divers—from a submarine—fighting
with Mr. Rawlins! They’re attacking him—struggling with him! Get Dad,
get the police!”

Then, faint and as from a vast distance, he heard Frank’s voice calling
excitedly for Mr. Pauling’s telephone number. He knew his chum was
summoning aid and he sat rigid, watching with staring eyes the struggle
taking place beneath the river. Rawlins had arisen; by a tremendous
effort he had flung aside one man, but the other was grappling with him,
fighting desperately, and as Tom saw something flash in the water above
the struggling men’s heads he realized that the stranger held a knife.

Now they had drawn closer, they were some distance from the submarine
and the very instant Tom noticed this a wild cry of alarm rang in his
ears.

At the sound, Tom saw one man start to plunge towards the under-sea
boat, and to the boy’s astonishment he saw that the craft was moving and
was slipping rapidly from its resting place. Although the man struggled
desperately to reach it he might as well have stood still, for scarcely
did Tom realize that the submarine was under way ere it was a mere
shadow and a second later had faded into the murky green.

And now Tom saw that Rawlins was the aggressor, the man who had been
chasing the submarine was swaying drunkenly, whirling in a half-circle,
his arms waving helplessly, while his companion had broken away from
Rawlins and was standing, with hands upraised, and backing slowly away
from the latter who leaned towards him with the other’s knife in his
hand.

“Kamarad!” Tom heard in thick tones. “Kamarad!” and the boy’s heart
jumped as he heard the words of surrender, the words which had become so
familiar to thousands of men in the trenches, and Tom, with a shock of
surprise, realized that the divers were Germans.

Now he could hear Rawlins’ words, spoken as if to himself or as if he
thought the others could hear.

“Yes, you dirty skunk!” Tom caught. “I’ll tell the world you’ll
surrender. All right, right about face and forward march and no nonsense
or I’ll puncture that suit and your hide under it.”

And then Tom’s brain had another sudden jolt. Of course the German could
hear. Of course Rawlins had heard his cry of surrender. What a dolt he
had been! They had radio sets, they could hear everything that was said
as readily as he could. That was why they had given up the fight, yes
that was it, that was why the submarine had cleared out. They had heard
his cry for help, had heard him tell Frank to summon police. How could
they know that their whereabouts was not known, that it was mere chance
that he and Rawlins had stumbled upon them? No doubt they imagined they
had been watched, trailed and surrounded and the submarine, rather than
run the risk of being captured, had deserted the two men at the first
sound of alarm being given. It was all clear to Tom now. The battle was
over. Rawlins was victorious, the men were his prisoners. Now Rawlins
was speaking again and Tom saw that the second man was being
half-dragged along by his fellow. But Rawlins’ words aroused Tom to
instant activity.

“Are you all right, Tom?” asked Rawlins. “Come over here. We need a
hand. This chap’s hurt somehow. Can’t get an answer out of him. Short
circuited or something. We’ve got to get him out somehow.”

Lunging forward, Tom bumped into Rawlins before he had taken six steps
and gave a startled exclamation. Was it possible the fight had taken
place so close? But he had no time to think on this matter. The second
man was helpless, dead, as far as appearances went, and Rawlins,
stooping quickly, cut the lead-soled boots from his feet.

Thus relieved of the weights, the body partly floated and with Tom
holding to one arm and the captured man grasping the other, while
Rawlins kept a hand on Tom and directed the way, the strange under-sea
procession floundered through the water, along the wall, past the black
sewer mouth and towards Rawlins’ dock.

And now Tom again heard Frank’s voice.

“Where are you?” it asked. “Your father’s coming. How can they find you?
Are you all right?”

“Everything’s all right,” answered Tom. “We’re coming back. Be there
soon!”

Hardly a minute later, Tom saw the familiar piers near their own dock.
He had thought they had wandered far, but they had not been two hundred
yards distant at any time. A moment later, they reached the foot of the
ladder.

Telling Tom to go up, Rawlins half lifted the unconscious man and with a
gruff warning to his fellow started to mount the rungs. Evidently the
words were heard by the anxious, waiting boys above, for Tom heard
Frank’s shout of joy and he called back as he drew himself towards the
open trap.

But before his head emerged from the water, a crash like thunder sounded
in his ears, there was a sound of tramping, hurrying footsteps, shouts
and cries and Tom’s brain reeled. What was happening? Had the men’s
confederates learned of their capture? Were their fellows breaking into
the laboratory to rescue them? Were the ruffians wreaking vengeance on
Frank and Henry?




CHAPTER X

RADIO WINS


As the confused sounds, the crash, the tramp of rushing feet, the
excited men’s voices and Frank’s high-pitched tones came dimly to Tom’s
ears, a deadly sickening fear swept over him. Had they escaped the men
from the submarine only to fall into the clutches of their confederates?

He had been under a tremendous strain, he had been terribly frightened,
his heart had been almost bursting with excitement and he had been under
water for much longer than ever before. The combination was too much for
him. His head swam, he reeled, swayed; fiery sparks and flashes seemed
to dance before his eyes; he felt a numbness stealing over him. Wildly
he clutched at the ladder in a last despairing effort and seemed
sinking, slowly, softly into a vast billowy void.

He opened his eyes and uttered a surprised cry. He was lying on the
floor of the laboratory and his father, anxious-eyed, was bending over
him while close at hand were Frank, Henry and Rawlins. Beyond and as a
confused mass Tom’s eyes saw blue-clad figures and with a start he rose
to a sitting posture.

“Gosh!” he exclaimed, staring about and for the moment not
comprehending. “What’s the matter, Dad? What’s happened?”

“Are you all right, Tom?” asked Mr. Pauling. “We got you just in time.
You fainted just as you reached the ladder top. Don’t you remember?”

Tom’s senses had now fully returned.

“Yes, Dad,” he replied. “I do now. Did Mr. Rawlins tell you about it?
Gee! We _did_ have a time! Are those men here?”

“Safe and sound, Tom!” Mr. Henderson’s voice assured him. “That is, one
of ’em is. The other’s in bad shape.”

“Yes, Rawlins told us something of what happened,” put in his father as
Tom rose unsteadily to his feet. “Look out, Son! You’re weak yet. Sit
down or you’ll go off again.”

Leaning on his father’s arm, Tom staggered to the proffered chair and
dropped weakly into it. Then he gazed about the room and at the crowd of
men within it.

His father and Mr. Henderson, Rawlins, Frank and Henry were there.
Near-by, was a strange, heavy-jawed man and beyond, near the door, were
half a dozen policemen. But where were the two divers they had captured
under the river? Then Tom saw that a heavily built, tow-headed man stood
between two of the blue coats, his hands manacled and a sullen glare in
his piglike eyes while, half hidden beyond two stooping men, was a form
stretched upon the floor. But before he could form a question his father
was giving quick sharp orders to the men.

“Get the Navy Yard!” he commanded, and as the heavy-jawed man jumped to
the telephone, he snapped out: “Tell the commandant that Pauling’s
speaking.” Then, before the operator had even asked the number, Mr.
Pauling was uttering commands to the police. “Leave a couple of men here
to guard the prisoners and get over to that block quick as you can. Get
all available men you can pick up. Draw a cordon around it and don’t let
any one in or out. Take my car! It’s up to you fellows to nab this
bunch—if they haven’t got wise. On the jump now, Reilly! Take every one
and everything that seems suspicious! Get me?”

Even before his last word rang out the policemen were hurrying towards
the street, and an instant later, Tom heard the roar of their motor and
the clang of their bell as the patrol dashed off.

“Navy Yard on the wire!” announced the man at the phone and Mr. Pauling
grabbed the receiver.

“This is Pauling!” he announced shortly. “That you, Admiral? All right!
Got important matter.”

Then, to Tom’s amazement, his father broke into the most utter
gibberish, calling out a confused but rapid list of figures and words.

“That’s done!” he exclaimed, as he slammed back the receiver and turned
towards Tom. “There’ll be a dozen destroyers and chasers combing the sea
for that sub within fifteen minutes.” Then, with a different note in his
voice, he asked, “Do you feel all right, Son?”

As Tom answered, his father turned towards the men bending above the
figure on the floor. “Come here when you have a chance, Doctor,” he
called. “Want you to have a look at my boy.”

At his words, one of the men rose and hurried to Tom’s side.

“Had a close call, my boy!” he exclaimed, as he took Tom’s wrist and
drew out his watch. “Good thing Rawlins fixed up these suits so you
couldn’t inhale flames. Different case with that chap yonder. He’s in
bad shape. Trying to fix him up to get him to hospital. Afraid there’s
no hope for him though! Oh, you’re O. K. Fit as a fiddle! Pulse fine!
Nothing wrong with him, Pauling. Just a bit of nerves, I expect, and
strain of being down too long.”

Hurrying from Tom’s side he again devoted himself to the injured man.

Things were moving so rapidly that Tom was dazed and was striving his
best to gather his wits together and to understand all that was taking
place. Mr. Henderson and Rawlins were talking earnestly in low tones,
but Tom could not hear a word they said and was busy replying to his
father’s, Henry’s and Frank’s questions and plying them with queries in
turn.

Presently Rawlins and Mr. Henderson rose and as the former came to Tom’s
side the other strode across the room and, facing the prisoner, stared
fixedly into his face.

“I guess you’re all right, Tom,” said Rawlins, the tone of his voice
betraying far more solicitude than was conveyed by his words. “You’re
some kid, I’ll tell the world! You’ll be famous if you don’t watch out.
Say, old man, I’m mighty sorry I kept you down so long. Never thought
about you not being accustomed to it. I was so darned interested in that
sub and those men I forgot about the danger to you, Tom. And say, Mr.
Henderson thinks we’ve made some haul! I’ve been telling him the whole
yarn—the Dutch talk and all the rest. Henderson thinks he recognizes
that Hun we brought up and sees a big plot behind all this. Too bad the
other fellow got flames and can’t talk. Your radio’s all to the mustard,
I’ll say!”

At this moment Mr. Henderson’s voice interrupted them. As he had stared
searchingly but silently at the prisoner the latter’s shifty eyes had
fallen and he shuffled his feet uneasily. Then, without warning and so
suddenly Tom and the others jumped, Henderson snapped out:

“Open your mouth!”

So unexpected was the command that the prisoner, long trained to instant
and implicit obedience to orders, involuntarily threw back his head
opened his enormous mouth.

“Thought so!” ejaculated Mr. Henderson and then, even before the
surprised man’s jaws closed, he yanked aside the fellow’s denim shirt
exposing the hairy freckled chest with a livid white scar diagonally
across it.

“That’s enough!” snapped out Mr. Henderson. Then, addressing Tom’s
father he remarked, “It’s he, Pauling. No question of it. Good day’s
work this—thanks to Rawlins’ suits and Tom’s under-sea radio.”

“Wha-what’s it all about?” demanded Tom, absolutely at a loss to grasp
the meaning of all the orders, the strange telephone message and Mr.
Henderson’s statements. “Who _are_ the men and _what_ were they doing?”

“Never mind now,” replied his father. “We’ll get home first. Feel ready
to go?”

“Oh, I’m all right now,” declared Tom. “Only a bit tired out.”

“Call for a couple of plain-clothes men to stay here,” Mr. Pauling
ordered, turning towards the heavy-jawed man. “Don’t want any one
meddling with the instruments. Keep that trap shut and bolted and don’t
sleep on the job.”

Then, to the surgeons, “Soon as he comes to and can talk, call me up. If
he says anything, write it down. Don’t let any one—any one, mind
you—speak with him.”

The surgeon nodded in assent and as the other man again went to the
telephone Mr. Pauling and Rawlins half lifted Tom, and, accompanied by
Frank, Henry and Mr. Henderson, the party left the workshop. Already the
two policemen had left with their prisoner and were pressing through a
curious crowd which had gathered outside and which was held in check by
more stalwart, blue-coated men.

“Gosh! you’ve got the whole of the New York police here!” exclaimed Tom.

“Not quite that,” laughed his father, “but Henderson surely did call
enough of them. Guess they thought we were going to raid a liner.”

“Well, you didn’t name any limit,” replied Mr. Henderson chuckling. “You
said ‘call the police’ and I called ’em. Might as well be on the safe
side, you know.”

As Mr. Pauling helped Tom into Mr. Henderson’s car he saw the man whom
Rawlins had captured in his spectacular battle under the river being
shoved into a patrol wagon.

“Do tell me who he is,” begged Tom. “Is he a German spy?”

His father laughed. “You’ve forgotten the war’s over and done with and
there are no spies,” he replied. “No, my boy, he’s not even a German.
But you’ll have to wait a bit before I can tell you anything more.”

“Well, where did you send those policemen, then?” asked Tom. “You can
tell me that.”

Mr. Pauling’s eyes twinkled. “They’ve gone to get your phantom radio
man,” he replied. “Henderson’s men couldn’t find him before, but I’ll
wager we located him this time. You see, Reilly happened to know about
that old sewer and he says it runs under the block where you located the
sender of those odd messages. Henderson thinks if he finds one he’ll
find the other. We’ll run around past there and see if anything is
happening.”

As Frank and Henry crowded into the little car, the boys saw a stretcher
bearing a shrouded form being carried from their workshop to an
ambulance, and the next moment they were moving slowly through the crowd
which reluctantly made way before the insistent screams of the horn.

Close behind them came another car with Mr. Henderson and Rawlins and a
moment later they were through the crowd and speeding towards the block
to which Mr. Pauling had dispatched the police.

As they swung around a corner they saw a surging, densely packed throng
blocking the street, while from beyond came the sounds of shouts and
cries. Above the heads of the people the boys could see the glaring
brass and shining paint of two patrol cars and, moving here and there,
rising and falling as if tossed about upon a troubled sea, the
low-visored, flat-topped caps of policemen.

“Can’t get through there!” declared Mr. Pauling, as his horn screeched
and fell on unheeding ears. “Looks like a riot!”

Mr. Henderson had leaped from his car and was beside them. “Guess the
men found something,” he remarked. “I’ll push through and see what’s
up.”

With Rawlins by his side, he wedged his way into the crowd and the two
were instantly swallowed up. But a moment later they reappeared, hats
and collars awry, coats torn open, and panting.

“Whew!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson. “Might as well try to get through a
solid wall. Hello! There’s another wagon!”

As he spoke, a bell clanged harshly and above the heads of the mob a car
crowded with police could be seen forcing its way towards the center of
the disturbance which appeared to be a large garage.

At this moment a huge, lumbering motor truck crept slowly from the
garage door and an angry bellow rose from the crowd. But even an East
Side mob must give way before a five-ton truck and the crowd, surging
back to make way for the truck, swept around the boys and the two cars
and engulfed them like a sea of rough clothes and angry, grimy faces.

“How the dickens can we get clear now!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson, as to
save themselves from being knocked down and trampled underfoot he and
Rawlins leaped upon the running boards and flattened themselves against
the body of the car.

“Expect we’ll have to stick here until the crowd leaves,” replied Mr.
Pauling, and added, “Unless they pick us up car and all and carry us
out.”

Now the crowd was surging still farther back as though pressed by an
irresistible force and above the bellowing, moving, multicolored wave of
human heads and shoulders appeared a half-dozen mounted police, their
well-trained horses forcing back the human wall which, despite jeers,
taunts, threats and imprecations, gave way steadily before them.

As the police drew near and the crowd thinned out, one of the officers
caught sight of the two cars and their occupants.

“Here you!” he shouted, urging his horse towards the car. “Get them
flivvers out o’ here! Right about now and move lively!”

Mr. Pauling chuckled and Mr. Henderson grinned. “Show us how!” cried
back Mr. Pauling.

“No sassing back there!” stormed the policeman now riding close. “Get a
move on or I’ll pinch the bunch of ye for interferin’ with the police,
resistin’ an officer and blockadin’ traffic. I’ll get enough charges
against ye to send youse to the island for a year.”

Mr. Henderson and Tom’s father were shaking with laughter. “Don’t be
foolish, officer. Don’t you see we can’t move?” Mr. Henderson asked.

The policeman’s face grew purple with anger and he pushed his mount
close beside the car, calling to a fellow officer to help him.

Exasperated by the crowd, naturally quick-tempered and in a frenzy of
rage at these “swells,” as he mentally dubbed them, defying his orders,
he drew his club and raised it threateningly.

Mr. Henderson leaped from the running board to the policeman’s side and
in tones which even the angry blue coat recognized as authoritative
exclaimed,

“Here, that’s enough from you! You’ll find yourself broke if you don’t
look out. Your job’s to protect citizens—not to abuse them!”

A look of mingled amazement and anger swept over the officer’s face.

“An’ who may youse be?” he began, hunching himself forward and shooting
forth his pugnacious jaw.

Mr. Henderson stepped a bit closer and turned back the lapel of his
vest.

The sudden change in the man’s attitude and expression caused the boys
to burst out laughing. Surprise, incredulity, fear, and regret all
spread over his big Hibernian features in turn. His half-raised arm
dropped to his side, he seemed to shrivel and shrink in size, his pale
blue eyes seemed about to pop from between his red-lashed lids.

Then Irish humor came to his rescue. Drawing himself stiffly up he
saluted and with a twinkle in his eyes blurted out,

“B’gorra, Sir, ’tis sorry I am. But how was I to know, Sir? What with
your kelly dinted in and your tie adrift and all. Sure I’ll see ye
through here in a jiffy.”

The crowd had now been driven far back, and, escorted by the mounted
men, the two cars proceeded slowly up the street until opposite the
garage. A few idlers were still hovering about and were being chased
away by blue coats, but inside the garage the boys could see a closely
packed mass of men with policemen’s caps much in evidence, while the
broad doorway was blocked by officers with drawn clubs.

As Mr. Pauling brought his car to a stop, a plain-clothes man pressed
through the line of police and hurried to the car.

“What’s up?” demanded Mr. Pauling as the man came close. “Find
anything?”

“Find anything!” repeated the other, his gimlet eyes fairly glistening
with satisfaction. “You bet your—beg your pardon—I’ll say we did. Got
the whole bunch—men, cars, booze an’ all. Want the story now?”

“No, don’t stop now, Murphy,” replied Mr. Pauling, “After everything’s
cleaned up come around to the house and we’ll hear the whole yarn, the
boys are entitled to know it. I’m expecting a call to the hospital at
any time and must be on hand. Glad you got them.”

“I guess I’ll stay and see the fun,” said Rawlins, “that is, if I may.”

“Let Mr. Rawlins in, Murphy,” commanded Mr. Pauling. “He’s one of our
crowd and all right. Wouldn’t have got this job over without his help.
See you later.”

As the car drove off, the boys saw Rawlins pushing through the cordon of
police by Murphy’s side and all three breathed a sigh of regret that
they, too, could not remain to see what exciting and interesting things
were taking place within the garage.

But they realized that it was no place for boys and, to tell the truth,
all three were quite ready and willing to go home and have a chance to
calm down and rest. Tom, of course, had been through a racking
experience and was utterly exhausted nervously and physically, and
Frank, who was younger and of a far more nervous temperament, had been
so worried and frightened over Tom’s plight and the uncertainty of what
was occurring under the water that he had become almost hysterical when
it was all over. Even Henry had experienced enough excitement to last
him for some time and boylike was crazy to rush home and tell his
parents all about the remarkable adventures of the afternoon.

Leaving Henry at Gramercy Square, Mr. Pauling drove the car home while
Mr. Henderson went to his office and Tom and Frank, who was staying at
the Pauling home while his parents were in Europe, breathed a sigh of
satisfaction when they found themselves once more in the cool, quiet
interior of the house on Madison Avenue.




CHAPTER XI

HENDERSON HAS AN INTERVIEW


When, after parting with Mr. Pauling and the boys, Mr. Henderson drove
towards his office, he was in high good humor. The afternoon, thanks to
the boys’ radio and Rawlins’ diving suits, had been a most eventful and
highly satisfactory one. Not only had the discoveries resulted in the
raid on the garage, the seizure of a vast amount of contraband and
probably the breaking up of the gang of rum-runners which for so long
had baffled his men and himself, but it had brought in two prisoners,
one of whom at least he had recognized and was mighty glad to see.

But despite all this he was sorely puzzled and cudgeled his brain to
find a reasonable explanation for many things which seemed inexplicable.
If, as it seemed, the garage had been a hiding place for smuggled
liquor, what connection did it have with the submarine and the divers
Rawlins had captured? Had the contraband been brought there in the
under-seas boat, and if so how? He knew, as Rawlins had already pointed
out, that a submarine could not go in and out of any port—in the West
Indies or elsewhere—without attracting immediate attention, for there
were not many of the craft knocking about and even if the natives of the
islands had kept the secret some of the government’s agents who were
scattered through the West Indies would either have seen or heard of the
craft. Mr. Pauling, for example, had personally been to Cuba and Nassau
and while he had seen schooners leave with cargoes only to return empty
without being reported from any American port, still he had found or
heard nothing which would indicate a submarine unless, yes, that might
be possible—the schooners might have transferred their cargoes to the
under-sea boat in mid-ocean or at some uninhabited island.

But even in that case, the native sailors, the mulattoes and negroes,
surely would have talked about it. To them, a submarine would have been
far too remarkable and interesting a thing not to have told their
wondering cronies and families about it. And where, assuming this was
so, had the bootleggers secured the vessel?

Rawlins had assured him the submarine was a German U-boat of a recent
type, such as had been off the United States coast during the latter
days of the war, but she could not be one of these, for the Navy, he
knew, had accounted for them all. Had the Germans taken to rum-running?
Had they secretly retained one or more submarines, and, knowing the
enormous profits to be made, put them to use carrying cargoes of liquor
from the West Indies to the United States? Of course this was possible,
but somehow Mr. Henderson, who was famed in the Service for his
“hunches,” which nine-tenths of the time proved right, had a feeling
that there was something deeper, some mystery behind it, and he had high
hopes of fathoming this or at least of throwing some light upon it by an
interview with the unharmed prisoner.

That he would obtain a confession or even much information from the
fellow, he very much doubted, for he knew the man of old—knew him for a
sullen, arrogant and thoroughly desperate man and one who could and did
keep his mouth shut under the most severe grilling. Mr. Henderson deeply
regretted that the other prisoner had been injured by inhaling the
flames in his helmet, for with two men, each thinking the other had
betrayed him, there would be a good chance of getting at the bottom of
things, but it was almost hopeless now. The surgeons had stated that the
man was doomed, that he could not possibly survive his terrible burns
and that it was doubtful if he ever regained consciousness. Mr. Pauling
was to be summoned when the wounded man came to his senses, if he ever
did, and in the meantime the other prisoner was to be brought before Mr.
Henderson by two of his own men whom he had despatched for the purpose,
for, while he and Mr. Pauling coöperated with the police in many ways,
they had no desire to let the police learn of many matters that were
taking place or hear statements or confessions which they might repeat.

As soon as Mr. Henderson reached his office, where the erstwhile janitor
was on guard, he hurried the latter off and then, taking some documents
from a safe and lighting his pipe, he proceeded to study the papers with
minute attention. He was interrupted in this by the return of the
messenger who was accompanied by a small, wiry, dark-haired man whom Mr.
Henderson addressed as “Ivan” and who seated himself in a proffered
chair and proceeded to make himself quite at home with an immense black
cigar.

“It’s Smernoff!” announced Mr. Henderson presently. “Got him to-day
under very remarkable circumstances—no matter what. Recognized him at
once although he’s shaved off his beard. Examined his mouth and chest to
make sure. I expect him here in a few moments. Do you happen to know if
he ever served in the German army?”

“Sure, yes, I know,” replied the Russian. “Not in the army, no, but the
navy.”

“What was his job?” demanded Mr. Henderson.

“That I do not know,” replied the other with a shrug of his shoulders.

“H-m-m,” muttered Mr. Henderson. “Well, I want you to be here to
interpret. He doesn’t speak much English or won’t. I guess they’re
coming now.”

A moment later, there was a rap on the door and the janitor—once more in
jumper and overalls—left by another entrance and armed with dustpan and
broom proceeded to busy himself in the hallway exactly as if he had not
been interrupted several hours previously by Frank’s excited summons to
Mr. Pauling.

At Mr. Henderson’s “Come in!” two heavily built men in civilian clothes
entered, crowding closely one on either side of the sullen man who had
been captured by Rawlins.

Not until they had seated themselves at Mr. Henderson’s orders would any
one have suspected that the pig-eyed man was a prisoner or was
handcuffed. For a space, Mr. Henderson gazed steadily and silently at
the prisoner who returned his stare, hate and venom in his eyes, and
then, turning to Ivan, Mr. Henderson ordered him to ask the fellow
certain questions.

It is not necessary to repeat the conversation, or rather the queries
and replies, and for some time no satisfactory information was brought
out, the captive absolutely refusing to admit anything or to say a word
which might incriminate himself or his fellows. But when, after a deal
of questioning, Mr. Henderson had Ivan hint that the men captured in the
raid on the garage had betrayed the Russian and his fellow diver, the
man’s face took on a demoniacal expression, his eyes blazed and a
torrent of curses and foul oaths burst from his lips.

A moment later, he checked his furious outburst and replied quickly to
many of the interrogations put to him through the interpreter.

It was soon evident, however, that he was either extremely ignorant of
many matters or else was an accomplished liar, and, while the
information he gave cleared up many matters which had puzzled Mr.
Henderson previously, still the most important and mysterious features
of the whole case remained as much a mystery as ever.

“I guess that’s all we can find out, or all he’ll tell,” declared Mr.
Henderson at last. “Take him away and be mighty careful to have him well
guarded. He’s a slippery rascal and we don’t want him getting away this
time.”

As the men with their prisoner left the room, Ivan rose as if to go.

“Sit down!” Mr. Henderson ordered him. “I may need you again at any
minute. We’ve got another man to question yet.”

Ivan’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he had long been employed as an
interpreter in Mr. Pauling’s service and had learned not to ask
questions or make comments, no matter how amazing or perplexing a matter
might appear. So, again seating himself comfortably, he lit another of
his huge cigars and waited patiently and silently for further orders.

Meanwhile Mr. Henderson was going over his hastily written statements of
the prisoner and with his knowledge of the man’s past and his “hunch”
was striving to dovetail the information with surmises and records so as
to form a complete whole.

It was interesting and fascinating work—this building up a case from
fragments and conjectures—a sort of jig-saw puzzle with many of the
parts missing, and Mr. Henderson was an adept at it. Indeed, he often
spent hours, when he had time to spare, playing the game with imaginary
or hypothetical cases exactly as a person will play a game of solitaire.
It was this ability to piece together stray bits of evidence, and his
almost uncanny intuition, that had secured the high position he held and
had won the envy and admiration of all in the Service who knew him,
although his friends good-naturedly chaffed him about his “imagination,”
as they called it.

But on more than one occasion his imagination, or intuition or sixth
sense or whatever it might be, had brought most astonishing results; as,
for example, the capture of a band of plotters; to which he had referred
when discussing the flood of Bolshevist literature and the wave of crime
with his coworkers.

Now, as he studied his notes of Smernoff’s statements and at times half
closed his eyes as if concentrating on some far-off matter, a smile
spread across his features and from time to time he nodded approvingly.

“I’d wager it is,” he commented to himself. “Everything points that way.
The submarine, Smernoff—a fanatical socialist—those remarkable deep-sea
suits—the under-sea radio, the mystery about it all and yes—the time
hitches perfectly. Bloody sort of brute he is—wish I could get him for
that—sorry it’s out of our hands. Jove! I hope that mate of his lives
long enough to give us what we want. Smernoff admits _he_ knows. By
Jove, it would be a coup! Wonder if those boys even dream what their
experimenting has led up to!”

He was still deeply engrossed in his occupation when the phone bell rang
and Mr. Pauling’s voice came to him. “He’s conscious,” said the latter,
“Come to the hospital as quickly as possible. Yes, I’m going this
instant. Of course. Bring Ivan.”

“Come along, Ivan!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson, as he hung up the receiver,
and grasping his hat he hurried from the room into which the janitor
instantly popped like some sort of automaton.

As soon as the ambulance bearing the injured prisoner had reached the
hospital, the man had been taken to a private room and the doctors had
devoted every attention, every latest appliance, every resource known to
modern medicine and surgery to patching the horribly burned and
disfigured fellow up in order to prolong his life until he could regain
consciousness. In the hospital a more thorough examination had revealed
the fact that the interior of his mouth was not so seriously burned as
had been thought when first aid was being administered at the dock.
Evidently he had had presence of mind enough to snap off the valve and
to shut his lips at the first burst of flames from the chemicals when,
startled by the submarine deserting them, he had instinctively cried out
a warning to his mate and had allowed water to enter the tube.

“There’s about one chance in ten thousand that he may live,” announced
the gray-haired surgeon to his assistant. “He has not inhaled flames and
it all depends upon his constitution. The shock was enough to kill an
ordinary man outright, but it will be no kindness to have him survive.
If it were not for Mr. Pauling’s orders I’d take the responsibility of
letting him go, I believe. Gad! Can you imagine any one living with a
face like that or caring enough to live to undergo the agony that he’ll
suffer if he becomes conscious?”

“Not me!” replied the younger man. “I’d think it a Christian act to let
cases of this sort find relief in death, but I suppose every man has a
right to his life if he wants it. Have any idea why Mr. Pauling’s so
keen on having him come to and talk?”

The elder man gazed at his assistant in a peculiar manner.

“No!” he snapped out at last. “And I’m not fool enough to ask or wonder.
It’s none of our business and I intend to follow orders to the letter.
But you can bet it’s something important. Just peep outside the door.”

With a puzzled expression, the young doctor opened the door cautiously
and looked to left and right. On either hand, standing silently, but
with watchful eyes, were two heavily built men, dressed in civilian
clothes, with soft, dark felt hats on their heads and, even to the
intern’s unpracticed eyes, detectives.

“Guess there _is_ something doing,” he remarked as he closed the door,
“couple of Bulls out there. What do they think—that he’s going to jump
up and run with that face and with both eyes burned out?”

The other glanced up from where he was bending close above the cot and
raised a finger for silence. Then, an instant later, he straightened up.

“Get Mr. Pauling at once!” he commanded. “Tell him the man is liable to
become conscious at any instant—that he may live, but if he wants to be
sure he had better come immediately.”

In the mean time, at the Pauling home, Tom had been relating his story
of the strange and exciting events which had taken place under the
river.

“Now, Son,” said Mr. Pauling, as Tom had thrown himself upon the lounge
in the library while his mother hovered anxiously over him, “if you feel
able, tell us all about it. Rawlins told us the main facts while you
were getting over your fainting spell, but, as many important matters
and far-reaching consequences may result from your discoveries and
captures, I would like to know all the details. Just as soon as you feel
tired, stop. Your health and welfare are the most important
things—everything else can wait if necessary. I would not ask you now,
only I know your mother is anxious to hear the story and, moreover, if I
am called to the hospital, I would like to have as much information as
possible. A lot may hinge on that.”

“Oh, I’m quite all right, Dad,” Tom assured his father. “Of course I’m
tired, but I don’t mind talking. In fact I’d like to.”

So, for some time, Tom narrated his adventures, beginning with the
descent to test the set at a distance and ending with the crash that
sounded in his ears as he was about to emerge from the water and leaving
out no detail of his sensations, thoughts or fears.

“I think it’s all quite clear,” declared Mr. Pauling when he had
finished. “I’m sorry I cannot divulge everything to you now or explain
all the mysteries which surround the astounding discovery that you boys
and Mr. Rawlins have made. But later I can and will, as I know you must
be dying of curiosity. And I can assure you of one thing: Uncle Sam will
be under a great obligation to you and your radio.”

“But you said you’d tell us who the man was whom we captured and what
they were doing in the garage,” Tom reminded him.

“Yes, I can do that,” replied his father, “but you two boys must learn
to keep secrets and not repeat anything I tell you. The man you and
Rawlins brought in—the one who was not hurt I mean—is a Russian, a rabid
‘red,’ and Henderson recognized him and later identified him beyond
question by a peculiar tooth and the scar on his chest. At one time he
was convicted of a serious crime against our government, but escaped
mysteriously from prison. I doubt very much if we get much information
from him, as he knows he must serve out his term—with a bit added to
it—and he is a close-mouthed rascal. We hope more from his companion, if
he recovers consciousness and can talk. If he knows he is dying he may
confess at the last minute. As far as the garage is concerned, as you
know, we put two and two together and decided the blind sewer had some
secret opening in the block where you boys located the mysterious
sending set. The fact that both those messages and the conversations you
heard under water included the names of flowers convinced us that they
emanated from the same source and as Rawlins assured us the conversation
in what he called Dutch, but which was probably Russian, came from the
men under water, it confirmed our suspicions that the man you boys
located was talking to men under water or on the submarine and that
somewhere in the block we would find the key to the mystery and more.
From what Murphy says, and the appearance of things, we succeeded beyond
our expectations. I was afraid that the rascals might have overheard you
and Rawlins or that the submarine, which evidently knew that they were
discovered, might have warned them. If so, we moved too quickly for
them.”

“But _are_ they bootleggers?” asked Frank.

“No doubt,” replied Mr. Pauling, “and many other worse things. When
Murphy and Rawlins arrive we’ll probably know more and if the wounded
man confesses we’ll solve many mysteries which remain to be unraveled.”

“Well, I’m mighty glad the old under-sea radio worked,” declared Tom,
“but I wouldn’t go through that experience again, not for—no, not for
Uncle Sam himself.”

At this moment the doorbell rang and a moment later Rawlins dashed into
the room, his eyes bright and a happy grin on his boyish face.

“I’ll tell the world it’s great!” he exclaimed, “They got pretty near
everything—booze, trucks, men, and that mysterious radio. And a
truckload of books and papers—cleaned out a regular nest. That man
Murphy is a corker, Mr. Pauling. He said to tell you he’ll be over in a
little while. They were just cleaning up when I left.”

Tom jumped up. “Hurrah!” he cried. “Then we were right all along! We
always said that fellow was one of a bootlegger gang. Gee, Frank! They
can’t laugh at radio or radio detectives now. It wins!”

“I’ll say radio wins!” cried Rawlins.




CHAPTER XII

THE CONFESSION


Before the conversation could be continued, the desk telephone rang and
Mr. Pauling instantly answered.

“Hello!” the boys heard him say. “Hello! Good! Right away. Call
Henderson. Yes, have everything ready. He’ll live perhaps? Yes,
Henderson will bring Ivan. Keep a record of everything. Good-by!”

As he ceased speaking, Mr. Pauling sprang up. “It’s Doctor Hewlett,” he
announced as he started for the door, “The man’s regaining
consciousness. He may talk at any moment and I must rush there. If
Murphy calls, send him over.”

An instant later, Mr. Pauling was hurrying to his car and the boys, Mrs.
Pauling and Rawlins commenced discussing the events which had followed
one another so rapidly during the past few hours.

Rawlins had to tell the story all over again to Tom’s mother and Frank
gave his version. Then all speculated on what the mystery surrounding
the submarine and the raid on the garage might be.

“It’s rather too bad that Fred can’t tell us anything yet,” said Mrs.
Pauling, “but I realize, in his position, secrecy must be maintained.
However, after it’s all over I suppose we shall know—that is, if the
newspapers don’t tell us first. They usually manage to find out such
secrets somehow.”

“Well, I admit I can’t see head nor tail to it,” declared Rawlins. “Of
course, as long as Mr. Pauling says those chaps are Russians and were
talking Bolshevik I suppose they are and were; but I _know_ that sub was
a Hun boat—not one of the big, latest U-boats, but the kind that was
over on our coast here once or twice. I’ve done a lot of work studying
submarines and they can’t fool me. Now, of course there’s no reason why
a Russian should not use a German sub if he could get hold of it, but
what were they doing over here in the East River is what gets me. I
don’t believe they were just rum-runners, even if Murphy and his crowd
did find a lot of booze over there, and what was that cigar-shaped
sub-sea gadget they were pulling along with ’em?”

“Why, I think that’s all simple,” declared Tom. “They probably brought
liquor in here with the submarine and carried it to the garage in that
torpedolike thing.”

Rawlins shook his head. “No, old man,” he replied. “A sub would never do
for a rum-runner. Why, every port in the West Indies is watched and the
whole world would hear if a sub poked her nose into a harbor and tied up
to a dock to load rum. It’s too bad we didn’t tackle those chaps out
there before they got to the sub. We might have brought in that torpedo
arrangement, too.”

“Gee, I’d forgotten all about that!” exclaimed Tom. “What became of it?”

“Why, didn’t I tell you?” replied Rawlins. “They shoved it into the
submarine. I was watching ’em do that when they spotted me. If they’d
had sense they’d have gone in after it and cleared out, but instead,
they had to try rough-house stuff and got left. I expect they thought
we’d seen too much and didn’t know I was armed. Then, when their mates
in the sub heard you yelling for help and heard Frank’s replies, they
thought the game was up and pulled stakes without stopping for the two
chaps below.”

“I wonder if they’ll get her—the destroyers, I mean,” said Frank.

“I doubt it,” replied Rawlins. “The sea’s a mighty big place and the
Lord knows where she’ll emerge. No knowing which way she headed either.
For all any one knows she may have scooted over to some hangout on Long
Island or swung around up the Hudson or slipped into the sound or stood
out to sea. But I doubt if she’ll try getting out of the harbor
submerged. Too risky. She might bump into a liner or a ship any minute
and she’d have to go blind—no periscope out, you see, because she’ll
know we’d have chasers, looking for her. No, I expect they’ll submerge,
rest on the bottom in shallow water somewhere and wait until night. Then
she could sneak out to sea with just her conning tower out. There’s
about one chance in a million of finding her and that’s the only way we
slipped up. Just as soon as I saw her I knew something crooked was going
on—knew it soon as ever I put eyes on those fellows in self-contained
suits—infringing my patents, darn ’em—and I planned to get back and
notify the authorities. Then we could have nabbed her and her whole
crew. Slipped up by letting those Bolshevik birds spot me. And Tom—did
you notice those fellows didn’t have those gadgets on their helmets? How
do you suppose they worked their radio without ’em?”

“Gosh!” exclaimed Tom. “I didn’t think of it at the time, but it’s so.
Say, what became of their suits? We can examine their outfits and find
out all about it.”

“Suits are safe enough down at the dock,” Rawlins assured him. “You’ll
have some fun examining them, I’ll say.”

“Why didn’t you ask Mr. Murphy all about what it meant?” inquired Frank,
who had been pondering on the mystery.

Rawlins gave a hearty laugh. “You don’t know friend Murphy,” he
answered. “I’ll say I asked him, but you might as well ask a lamp-post.
I know why they call potatoes Murphys now—all eyes and no mouth. That’s
him, too. Nice and pleasant and everything, but not a mite of
information. When I asked him first time he just looked me all over as
if I was some kind of a rare specimen. ‘Mr. Pauling says youse is on the
level,’ he said, ‘and I’ll take his word if he says the devil himself
has turned saint. But my orders is to say nothing to nobody till I
reports to Mr. Pauling and my orders stays orders till he gives me new
ones. He’s told me to let youse in here and to look after youse and that
I’m doin’, but never a word did he say about tellin’ of youse anything,
an’ that I won’t. What youse can see youse can see and welcome and what
youse may overhear youse can hear, but I’d advise youse to not repeat
it, and now draw your own conclusions.’”

The boys laughed. “He looked like that,” said Frank. “I can just imagine
him saying it.”

“And what did you say?” inquired Mrs. Pauling. “I have met that man
Murphy—he’s one of Fred’s right-hand men.”

“Oh, I knew he was right and just slapped him on the back and told him
he was a good skate and I’d put in a good word for him at any time. Told
him I didn’t want to butt in and wouldn’t bother him with any more
questions.”

“Didn’t you see anything?” asked Tom.

“About as much as you could see when we were in the crowd in the car,”
laughed Rawlins. “The garage wasn’t packed full, but there were about a
million plain-clothes men and police there and Lord knows how many
trucks, and everything that was going on was in the center. But I did
see them piling a lot of boxes and papers and a lot of radio stuff into
a truck and I heard a policeman smack his lips and say: ‘Glory be, but
it’s a burnin’ shame to think of all the good booze that’s goin’ to
waste nowadays. Sure it makes me throat feel dry as a load of hay to
think of it.’”

“Perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Pauling. “These men you found have some
connection with the Bolshevist threats and crimes that the papers say
are taking place. Fred never lets us know much of what is going on, as
he thinks I’ll worry. But whatever it is, I feel sure it has something
to do with the troubles and worries Fred has had recently. Both he and
Mr. Henderson have been working hard both day and night on something and
Fred has looked as if he had some great problem on his mind.”

“Well, I hope it’s that,” declared Tom. “Say, wouldn’t it be great if we
really _had_ helped Dad and the government on something more important
than smuggling liquor.”

“There’s the bell again,” exclaimed Frank. “Perhaps that’s Mr. Murphy.”

Frank’s surmise proved correct and Mrs. Pauling repeated her husband’s
orders to him. Scarcely waiting to hear, the detective turned and
hurried off.

“I suppose we might as well have dinner,” said Mrs. Pauling, after
Murphy had gone. “There’s no use waiting for Fred, he may be away all
night. You’ll have dinner with us, won’t you, Mr. Rawlins?”

Dinner over, the four returned to the library and hour after hour
dragged on with no word from Mr. Pauling.

Finally, Rawlins rose to go and was saying good night when the front
door opened and Mr. Pauling, Mr. Henderson and the detective Murphy
arrived.

“Didn’t wait dinner for me, did you?” cried Tom’s father, a note in his
voice that his wife knew meant relief and elation. “Glad you didn’t.
Sorry we were so late, but couldn’t get away a minute sooner. Didn’t
even have a chance to telephone to you. But we’re as hungry as bears. I
suppose there’s a bite to eat.”

Then, seeing Rawlins, hat in hand, he continued, “Don’t go, Rawlins.
Soon as we’ve eaten we’ll try to satisfy your curiosity and the boys’
and,” he added mischievously, “the wife’s, even if she does say she
hasn’t any.”

“They’re in mighty good spirits,” declared Rawlins when the three men
had disappeared in the direction of the dining room. “So I guess
everything’s come out O. K.”

“Yes, Fred’s had a great load lifted from his mind, I know,” agreed Mrs.
Pauling, “and I’m very glad. I’ve really been worried about him lately.”

“Well, we’ll soon know what ’tis,” said Tom. “Gosh! I can scarcely
wait.”

At last they heard the voices of the three men, laughing and chatting,
as they left the dining room, and an instant later they entered the
library.

“Now I suppose you four want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but
the truth,” laughed Mr. Pauling, as he motioned the others to seats and
settled himself in his own favorite chair. “I don’t think there’s much
that I cannot reveal now—except a few matters which have no direct
bearing or interest on the part you boys and Mr. Rawlins have played.
Well, let’s see. I guess I’d better begin at the garage—you know already
that Henderson identified the prisoner and how we had a hunch that the
affair centered in that block where the boys’ radio compasses located
the phantom speaker. I had an idea our men would have to surround the
entire block and make a house-to-house search, but the rascals saved us
that trouble. Evidently their friends had warned them that something was
wrong and Reilly’s men arrived just in time. They found a truck just
leaving the garage, and, remembering my orders to hold every one and
everything that looked suspicious, they stopped the truck—when the
driver put on speed as soon as he glimpsed the police. That was
suspicious and when they overhauled it they found it loaded with liquor.
Inside the garage, they found four more trucks and a crowd of men and
Murphy here tells me they put up a mighty good fight. That, of course,
drew a crowd and East Side crowds have no use for the blue coats. The
result was a free for all until another wagon arrived with reserves and
in the fracas several of the men in the garage broke away and
disappeared in the crowd.

“However, they got six and found enough contraband liquor in the trucks
and in a secret room under the floor to stock a dozen saloons. Most of it
was in this hidden room or cell under the floor, and very cleverly
hidden, too. Had a door formed by a false bottom to a repair pit and all
they had to do was to run a truck over the pit as if being repaired and
pass up the goods from below. There were other things in that room, too.
About twenty-five thousands dollars’ worth of furs and jewelry—all stolen
here or hereabouts; opium to the value of a hundred thousand or so, to
say nothing of morphine, cocaine and other drugs. In addition, there were
several thousand copies of red propaganda circulars and pamphlets, a neat
little engraving and printing plant and a second trapdoor that opened
into the old sewer. And the radio set was there also. A receiving
set—made in Germany by the way—and the transmission outfit. That was the
cleverest thing yet—according to Henderson who knows more about it than I
do. He tells me the what-do-you-call-it—aërial—was a folding affair
stretched across the inside of the roof and so arranged that it could be
drawn back between the girders entirely out of sight. Now I don’t know
any of the technical part of this and I’ll let Henderson explain it all
to you boys later if you wish. But the main thing, as I understand it,
was that they could send several thousand miles with the outfit on one
kind of a wave or could talk to a person a few blocks away with another
sort. At any rate, we never would have found that if we hadn’t found the
secret cell and the machine and a man at it. I’m not surprised
Henderson’s men never located it.

“That’s all about the garage. It was the headquarters and clearing house
of a dangerous gang of international cutthroats and rogues. They had
been robbing right and left, carrying their loot in motor cars and
trucks to the garage and hiding it in the secret room. Then from there
it had been carried in watertight containers, like miniature
submarines, through the old sewer to the submarine by the divers. Each
time the submarine came in she brought a cargo of liquor, drugs, cigars,
plumes, and other contraband and took away all the valuables and
receipts from sales. The conversations you overheard were between those
in the garage and other members of the gang, and the reason you boys did
not hear the other speaker was because he used a radio telegraph
instrument—that’s right, isn’t it, Henderson—and a very weak or short
wave—let’s see, a ‘buzzer set’ you called it, wasn’t it? Well, you can
get all that from Henderson, anyway.”

“But how on earth did you find all that out?” asked Rawlins, as Mr.
Pauling ceased speaking to light a cigar.

“Well, it took a little urging,” replied Mr. Pauling. “Murphy and his
men hinted to their prisoners that they’d been given the tip by the men
on the submarine and so, of course, they told all they knew in the hope
of getting lighter sentences and Henderson had the Russian up at his
office with Ivan and let _him_ think we knew all about him and the
submarine through tips given by the other crowd. As a result, we got
pretty complete information from both sides. But”—here Mr. Pauling
lowered his voice and signaled for Murphy to stand guard at the door—“we
couldn’t get what we wanted from either the Russian or any of the gang
at the garage. They’d tell us certain things—give us details and facts
about matters of which we already knew—such as the means of
communication, the submarine, etc., but beyond that they would not go.

“Short of torture I don’t believe they’d let out a word. And we knew—we
were positive—that back of it all was something deeper—a stupendous plot
aimed at the very heart and life—the very existence of the United States
and England. And we felt equally positive that back of this was an arch
criminal or rather arch fiend—a man with a tremendous brain, almost
unlimited power and marvelous resources. We could see many things which
linked this petty smuggling, the hold-ups and burglaries, the
rum-running and drug-importing with events of far greater importance.
But we had no proof, no evidence to go on.

“Some of our men thought they knew who this head—this nucleus of the
whole affair was but they could not be sure—they would not even dare
mention his name—and so we were handicapped, working in the dark. But
now we do know. We know far more than I dare tell any one, than I dare
think. The injured man has placed it all in our hands. It was the most
astounding revelation I have ever known or ever expect to hear. I cannot
tell you all—I did not even permit Murphy or the doctor to be by the
man’s bedside while he spoke and as soon as I knew he could speak and
understand English I sent Ivan off, too. Only Henderson and I heard what
he said. This man was—yes, I say ‘was,’ because he is dead—was one of
those misguided men who plotted against England and became a tool of the
Germans. He betrayed his cause and his leaders, and, despised, hunted
for the traitor and coward that he was, not safe either in England,
Ireland or Germany, he became a man without a country, an enemy of all
organized governments, a fanatical ‘red’ and a trusted emissary of this
arch criminal I referred to.

“When he became conscious he raved and cursed frightfully, swearing he
had been betrayed and in his mad desire for vengeance—knowing he had but
a few moments to live—told us as best he could with his scorched and
blackened lips and tongue what we longed to know. It was unbelievable,
incredible, more marvelous than Jules Verne’s stories, but true, we
know, from the way it dovetails in with other facts in our possession.

“Among other things, we learned that many mysteriously missing ships—the
many passenger and merchant vessels which never reached port—were
deliberately sunk, torpedoed without warning and all survivors put to
death in cold blood merely to secure the gold and other valuables on
board. All this treasure, all the loot from robberies and crimes
committed in the United States and abroad, all the receipts from
smuggling and the sales of drugs and liquors were to swell the fund this
master plotter was accumulating to accomplish his final purpose.

“This he told us towards the last—when each breath was a mighty effort,
when each word was wrung from him with torture—and he even tried to tell
us where it was hidden, where this vast treasure is concealed, cachéd,
and where we might find the headquarters of this monster in human form.
He was telling us and was striving, straining to give us the location.
He had mentioned the locality in a general way, was giving us the
latitude and longitude and had gasped out three figures when he died—the
words unfinished, the secret sealed within his lips and—most important
of all, with the name of that ruthless, relentless master-fiend
unspoken.”

The boys’ eyes had grown round with wonder as Mr. Pauling was speaking.
Mrs. Pauling leaned forward, her face flushed, her lips parted. Rawlins
had remained as silent, as immovable as if carved in stone, and even Mr.
Henderson and Murphy had been so engrossed, so interested, although they
knew the story as well as Mr. Pauling, that they had allowed their
cigars to go out.

“Jehoshaphat!” exclaimed Tom, when his father ceased speaking. “Gosh! We
_did_ butt into something worth while!”

“Oh, Gee!” ejaculated Frank in disappointed tones. “Then you don’t know
where that treasure is after all!”

“No,” replied Mr. Pauling, “not within several hundred miles. But the
treasure is not the important thing, it’s the man himself we want.”

Rawlins rose, his eyes shone with unwonted brilliancy, his face was
flushed.

“I’ll say that’s some day’s work!” he cried. “But I’ll bet we _can_ get
that loot—and that whole bunch of crooks, too. I’ve a scheme, Mr.
Pauling, but I want a little time to think it over and get my brain
straightened out. There’s been too much crowded into it during the last
ten hours.”

Mr. Pauling stared at Rawlins as if he thought he might have taken leave
of his senses. Then, realizing that Rawlins was in earnest, he said
quietly, “All right, Rawlins. I don’t know what your scheme may be, but
I’ll be glad to hear it whenever you’re ready. Call me up and we’ll hear
it when you have it worked out. We owe you more than I can express to
you now.”

A moment later Rawlins had gone and hardly had his footsteps died away
when the telephone tinkled.

“Yes!” exclaimed Mr. Pauling as he listened. “Remarkable! Absolutely
deserted! Well, I guess that chapter’s closed. Thanks for letting me
know.”

“Sorry Rawlins has gone,” declared Mr. Pauling as he hung up the
receiver and wheeled about. “That was the Admiral calling. One of the
destroyers has found the submarine!”

“Gosh! then they’ve caught more of the gang!” cried Tom.

“That’s the astounding part of it,” replied his father. “She was found
drifting, her upper works just awash, about one hundred miles out to sea
and _not a living soul on board her_!”




CHAPTER XIII

RAWLINS’ PROPOSAL


When Rawlins called on Mr. Pauling the following day the first thing
that greeted him was the announcement that the submarine had been found.

So excited were the boys that for some time they could not convey an
intelligible idea of the matter and before Rawlins could grasp the
details of the discovery they were plying him with questions as to his
opinion in regard to it.

“What do you think became of the men?” cried Tom.

“Do you suppose it was their boat?” demanded Frank.

“How do you think it got so far away, if it’s theirs?” put in Tom.

“We puzzled over it for hours last night and no one can explain it,”
declared Frank.

“Easy, boys, easy!” laughed Rawlins. “One thing at a time. Shorten sails
a bit and let me get my bearings. You say the destroyer found a
submarine floating just awash and absolutely deserted one hundred miles
off the coast? I don’t believe it _was_ that sub!”

“Could you identify it by a description—anything about it?” asked Mr.
Pauling.

“Well, I don’t know,” admitted Rawlins. “I know it was a German sub and
I’d recognize it if I saw it; but whether I can be sure of it by a
description depends upon the description.”

“They’re towing her in,” Mr. Pauling informed him. “She was disabled and
unable to come in under her own power. Until she arrives all we know is
that she is a German boat—one of the medium-sized craft—that she carries
torpedoes and a gun and that she is painted sea-green.”

“Fits her like an Easter bonnet,” declared Rawlins. “Under water I could
not be sure of her color, but it was not black or gray—everything takes
on a greenish look under water. Did they find anything suspicious on
her?”

“That I can’t say,” replied Mr. Pauling. “They didn’t report whether
they made any discoveries or not.”

“But if it _is_ the submarine, where are the men?” reiterated Tom.

“Search me,” replied Rawlins. “A lot of things may have happened to
them. Something may have gone wrong so they were obliged to come up and
knowing they would be captured they took the sub’s boats. Or again, they
may have decided to desert the sub and scatter—probably they knew the
chaps we got, and suspected they’d confess. It would have been an easy
matter to run in close to shore, take to the boats and land and then
sink the boats in shallow water so as to leave no trace. Or some ship
might have picked them up. By the way, I’ve been puzzling over
something. How do you suppose that sub got in and out of the West Indies
without being seen and reported. If she carried contraband in and loot
out she must have gone to some port.”

“Why, didn’t I explain that?” asked Mr. Pauling. “Must have slipped my
mind when relating the story yesterday. The prisoner told us how they
managed. The submarine never entered any port—unless you consider the
hiding place of the chief of the gang a port—but picked up her cargoes
in mid-ocean.”

“Oh, I see, transferred them from another ship, eh?” said Rawlins.
“Stupid of me not to think of it.”

“Not quite right yet, Rawlins,” chuckled Mr. Pauling. “It was this way.
A vessel would sail from a West Indian port with a cargo and would drop
it overboard at a designated spot. Then the submarine would pick it up.
If they had transferred on the surface they might have been seen and
rough weather would have interfered. Moreover, if those on the schooners
saw the submarine or knew of her they might have talked. They imagined
the things were to be grappled or brought up by divers. The head of this
bunch takes no chances.”

“Ah, now I see a light dawning!” exclaimed Rawlins. “I think that solves
several puzzles. You remember those messages you boys heard? Well, they
always, or nearly always, included numbers—‘thirty-eight fifty,
seventy-seven’ was one, I believe—and ‘good bottom’ and similar things.
I often wondered about those, but I’ll bet those were the spots where
the sub was to find cargoes dumped. Hasn’t that Russian Johnny come
across with anything more about the high Muck-a-Muck of the bunch and
where he hangs out?”

“No, I had another long session with him, but he swears he knows nothing
about it and for once I am inclined to think he is telling the truth,”
replied Mr. Pauling. “He insists that he never visited the place—never
saw the chief and does not even know who he is—except that all spoke of
him as of a supreme being or a king. His story is that only a few
men—just enough to man the submarine—including the fellow who died, went
to headquarters. That the others, including himself, were always put
ashore at a small island in the West Indies where they had a camp and
that they walked to the island from the submarine and from the shore to
their under-sea craft in diving suits.”

“That’s a probable yarn,” assented Rawlins. “Did he tell you the name of
the island?”

“He says he doesn’t know it himself, that there were a few natives there
when he first arrived, but that under orders from their superiors they
murdered the blacks in cold blood.”

“Dirty swine, I’ll say!” exclaimed Rawlins. “Well, I know the West
Indies a lot better than I know New York and if we can squeeze some sort
of a description from old pig-eye I’ll wager I can locate that hangout.
But now about that other business—those messages—have you got the notes
you made of them, boys?”

“Sure,” replied Tom, “At least, Mr. Henderson has. We gave them all to
him.”

“Well, we’ll need ’em if Mr. Pauling thinks my proposition all right,”
said Rawlins. “I hadn’t got it quite settled as to details when I came
in, but the capture of that sub—if she is the one—has cleared it all
up.”

“I can tell you better what I think of any proposal you may have after I
have heard it,” said Mr. Pauling.

“All right, here goes,” laughed Rawlins. “You see from what you told us
about that dead fellow’s confession, I am pretty sure the big ‘I am’ of
the bunch is hanging out somewhere in the West Indies. You said he was
giving you the place and had mentioned three figures of latitude and
longitude when he kicked off. Now I don’t know what those figures are,
but there are not such an everlasting lot of combinations of figures in
the islands—that is, where a man could have a secret hangout—and I know
’em like a book—better than any book in fact—and if I had those figures
I’ll bet I can locate the old Buckaroo. Not only that, but with my suits
and the boys’ radio and my submarine chamber—the same as I use for
taking under-sea pictures—we could get the loot and everything else if
he’s got any of it under water.

“I rather figured, from what you said, that might be where he’d hide it,
especially as he seems stuck on under-sea work. Why, if the old cove
himself had a house under the sea I could find him! If they used this
new-fangled radio under water up here you can bet your boots the old
guy’s using it where he hangs out and if we’re any place near we can
pick him up and the boys can locate him with that radio compass
business. You see he probably won’t be wise to any one else being on to
the radio business. I was afraid that sub might get back and give it
away, but the chances are that if the men aboard her got ashore they
either won’t dare show up down there and will just fade away or else we
can beat ’em to it.

“Taking that sub gave me another idea and a good one. We can fix up the
old boat and go scouting for old Stick-in-the-mud in that. If he or any
of his gang see her they’ll think it’s all right and that their gang’s
still in her. I know a pretty good lot about handling a sub and we can
pick up a few good ex-navy men I know. Now don’t you think that’s a
corking good scheme, Mr. Pauling?”

Mr. Pauling hesitated, thinking deeply, before he spoke.

“It has its good points,” he admitted at last, “but it’s rather a wild
scheme—just what I should expect from a boy who’ll tackle two strangers
and a submarine single-handed under water—and there’s not one chance in
ten thousand that it will succeed. You see, the West Indies are a pretty
good-sized place and you’d have to go by guess work a great deal, even
with the figures the man gave us. However, I’m willing to aid and abet
the scheme, as any chance—no matter how remote—of getting that arch
fiend is worth trying. I can get the submarine without trouble and can
secure men who can be depended upon, but who’s going with you on your
wild-goose or wild-man chase?”

“Why, we are!” cried Tom and Frank in unison.

“The dickens you are!” exclaimed Mr. Pauling. “I should say not!”

The boys’ faces fell. “Oh, Dad, please let us go,” begged Tom. “It will
be great—going in a submarine and trying to find that fellow with our
radio. Why won’t you let us go?”

“Too much risk,” replied his father. “I’ve had one fright over you and
that’s enough.”

“Well, that rather knocks out my plans, too,” declared Rawlins. “I’d
counted on the boys going to work the radio end of it—seems kind of hard
on them to let some one else do it after they invented the thing and
were responsible for getting the men and the sub. If it hadn’t been for
them I’d never have got ’em, as it was their hearing Tom yell for help
that made ’em surrender, and you’d never have thought of that block and
the garage if they hadn’t located those messages with their radio
compasses. I don’t think there’s any danger, Mr. Pauling.”

“I don’t agree with you,” declared Mr. Pauling in positive tones. “If
you go after that man there’s every danger. You can’t tell what force he
may use or how an attempt to capture him might turn out.”

“But I had no idea of attempting to get him alone,” replied Rawlins in
surprise. “My plan was to have a trim little destroyer right handy and
then, when we’d located Mr. Big Bug, we’d report to the jackies and let
them do the dirty work. The boys wouldn’t have to be where there was any
scrapping going on and that old ex-German sub is never going to be my
coffin if I can help it, I’ll tell the world. No, sir, my idea was just
to do the scouting, so to speak—secret service under the sea—and let the
boys be in on the preliminary intelligence work running the secret
service of the air as you might say.”

“Well, I suppose in that case there would be little risk,” admitted Mr.
Pauling, “and as you say, they _are_ really the ones who should be
allowed to have charge of their own apparatus as they have earned the
right to it. I’ll have to give a little more consideration to the matter
before I decide, however. Possibly I may wish to go along also—or I may
be asked to, when I put this matter before my superiors. Now here are
those figures given by the dying man and the notes made by the boys.”

Unlocking a drawer, Mr. Pauling took out a packet of papers and spread
them before Rawlins, while the two boys, now that events had taken a
more hopeful and promising turn, laughed and talked excitedly to each
other, wildly enthusiastic at the bare possibility of going on the
unique search.

For a few minutes Rawlins studied the various sheets intently and
silently, comparing the figures which the boys had heard spoken and the
ones given by the dying Irishman, and at last he glanced up.

“These numbers of the boys’ will need a lot of study,” he declared, “but
these the chap in the hospital gave are dead easy. One of ’em is
nineteen and as there’s no longitude nineteen in the West Indies, or
within two thousand miles of the islands, it must be latitude, so there
we have a clue right out of the box—nineteen north latitude. Now if we
take a map and follow along nineteen we’ll know it must be within a few
miles of it that we’ll locate old Beelzebub. It can’t be over sixty
miles north of that meridian or the man would have said twenty instead
of nineteen, and it can’t be south of it or he’d have said eighteen and
something. So we can be dead sure the old duck hits the hay somewhere in
a sixty-mile belt bounded by meridians nineteen and twenty. Now here are
the other two numbers—sixty and seventy-five. You say he sort of lost
consciousness between these and you thought he said southwest by south.
Well, sixty might be longitude—the sixtieth meridian is in the West
Indies—but he might have meant sixty anything and so, if it _is_
longitude he was getting at, it brings us down to a space six hundred
miles east and west and sixty miles north and south—quite a considerable
bit of land and water to search—about 36,000 square miles—but only a
little of it’s land, so it don’t cut such a figure. That’ll take
in—let’s see—some of the Virgins, I think, and a lot of little cays and
quite a bit of Santo Domingo, but shucks, that’s not such a heap. But
I’ll admit this seventy-five gets my nanny. It’s not minutes—’cause
there are only sixty minutes to a degree and it’s a dead sure cinch that
it’s not latitude or longitude if those other numbers are, and if it’s
latitude it would be in the Arctic instead of the Caribbean and if it’s
longitude it’ll knock calculations out for about a thousand miles and
will take in all of Santo Domingo and Haiti, a bit of Cuba and most of
the Bahamas. Looks as if we might have some jaunt. And I don’t get those
compass bearings. However, maybe when they get that sub in and search
her we’ll find some chart or something. When do you expect——”

At this moment the telephone rang and Mr. Pauling answered.

“Ah, fine!” he exclaimed. “Expect to be in within an hour! Yes, I’d be
glad to. I’m bringing some others with me—Mr. Rawlins and the boys. Yes,
queer we were just talking of it. Good.”

“It was the navy yard,” explained Mr. Pauling as he hung up the
receiver. “They say the submarine is coming in now and will be at the
yard in half an hour. The Admiral wants me to be on hand to board her as
soon as she arrives and I’d like you and the boys to come along.”

“Hurrah!” yelled the two boys. “Now we’ll see what they had on her.”

“And we’ll know if she’s the right sub,” added Rawlins. “Though it’s
dollars to doughnuts that she is—it’s not likely there’s more than one
lost, strayed or stolen sub knocking about in these waters.”

When they reached the Navy Yard the submarine was just being docked and
twenty minutes later they were entering her open hatch. The boys had
never been within a submarine before and were intensely interested in
the machinery, the submerging devices, the air-locks and the torpedo
tubes, but their greatest interest was in the radio room. But here, much
to their chagrin and disappointment, they found practically nothing.
There were a few wires, some discarded old-fashioned coils, some
microphones and receivers and a loop aërial. Everything else had been
removed and nothing was left to show what sort of instruments had been
used. The boys were about to leave when Tom noticed something
half-hidden under a coil of wire, and, curious to see what it might be,
pulled it out.

“Gosh!” he exclaimed as he saw what it was. “These chaps were using that
same single control. This is part of it. Look, Frank, the dial is just
the same as the one Mr. Henderson gave us.”

“Gee, that’s right!” agreed Frank. “But then,” he added, “after all it’s
not surprising. You know Mr. Henderson said the one he gave us came from
a German U-boat.”

“Not a thing in the radio room,” announced Tom, as the boys rejoined Mr.
Pauling. “Everything’s stripped clean, but they used the same sort of
tuner that Mr. Henderson gave us. Where’s Mr. Rawlins?”

“Somewhere under our feet,” laughed his father. “He went down to examine
the hull. Wants to be sure this is the same boat.”

A few moments later the door to the air-lock was opened and Rawlins
appeared.

“I’ll say it’s the same old sub!” he exclaimed. “There’s a dent in her
skin near the stern on the port side. I noticed it before and it’s there
all right. Found anything up here?”

“No, nothing of any value to us,” replied Mr. Pauling. “The boys say the
radio’s been stripped from her and we haven’t been able to find a chart
or a map or a scrap of paper aboard. We found two of those carriers
though—the cigar-shaped affairs you saw the divers towing through the
water; but they’re both empty. If these fellows took anything from the
garage they disposed of it before they left the submarine.”

“Were the boats on her when they found her?” asked Rawlins.

“No, no sign of them,” replied the officer who was with them. “I boarded
her first thing, but there was no sign of life aboard and no boats.”

“It’s darned funny!” commented Rawlins. “If these lads took to the boats
they did it deliberately and took mighty good care to clean the old sub
out before they left. That disposes of the theory that they were
compelled to leave. Do you know what the trouble was with her machinery,
Commander?”

“Haven’t found out yet,” replied the officer. “We’ll have the engineers
aboard as soon as Mr. Pauling is through inspection.”

“Didn’t see any signs of small boats near where you found her, did you?”
inquired Rawlins.

The officer shook his head.

“No,” he replied, “but it was pretty dark and they might have been
within a few miles—very low visibility.”

“And no other vessel that might have picked them up?” continued Rawlins.

“Not a sail in sight—except a fishing smack about ten miles off. We ran
down to her and boarded her. Thought they might have sighted the sub, or
picked up the men. They hadn’t done either. Bunch of square-heads that
didn’t seem to know what a sub was, just dirty fishermen.”

“Dead sure they were?” asked Rawlins. “Didn’t notice where she hailed
from, did you?”

The officer flushed.

“Afraid we didn’t,” he admitted, a trace of resentment at being
questioned in his tones. “She hoisted sail soon after we left her.”

“And nothing peculiar about her in any way, I suppose?” suggested Mr.
Pauling.

“Well, I didn’t see anything,” replied the commander, “but I believe one
of my bluejackets made some remark about her rig. He’s a bo’sun’s mate
and an old man-o-warsman—Britisher but naturalized citizen and served in
the British navy. Would you like to question him? I’m no expert on
sailing craft myself.”

“Better talk to him, Rawlins,” suggested Mr. Pauling.

As there seemed nothing more to be discovered on the submarine the party
left the under-sea craft and walked to the destroyer which had found
her. The sailor to whom the officer had referred proved to be a grizzled
old salt—a typical deep-sea sailor and the boys could not take their
eyes from him. Touching his gray forelock in salute, the man hitched his
trousers, squinted one eye and reflectively scratched his head just over
his left ear.

“Yes, Sir,” he said, in reply to Mr. Rawlins’ question. “She _was_ a bit
queer, Sir. Blow me ef she warn’t. Man an’ boy Hi’ve been a sailorin’
most thirty year an’ strike me if Hi ever seed a Yankee smack the like
o’ her, Sir. What was it was queer about her, you’re askin’ on me? Well,
Sir, ’twas like this, Sir. She had a bit too much rake to her marsts,
Sir, an’ a bit too high a dead-rise an’ her starn warn’t right an’ her
cutwater was diff’rent an’ her cuddy. She carried a couple o’ little
kennels to port and sta’board o’ her companion-way, Sir—same as those
bloomin’ West Hindian packets, Sir. An’ as you know, Sir, most Yankee
smacks carry main torpmas’s and no fore-torpmas’ while this e’er hooker
was sportin’ o’ sticks slim an’ lofty as a yacht’s, Sir, an’ a jib-boom
what was a sprung a bit down, Sir. But what got my bally goat, Sir, was
the crew. Mos’ of ’em was Scandinav’ans, Sir, but the skipper was a
mulatter or somethin’ o’ that specie, Sir, an’ blow me hif he didn’t
talk with a haccent what might ha’ been learnt at Wapping, Sir.”

Rawlins whistled.

“I’ll say there was something queer about her!” he exclaimed. “Anything
else? Did you note her name and port?”

Once more the old sailor scratched his head and shifted the tobacco in
his cheek before replying.

“Cawn’t say as how Hi did, Sir,” he announced at last. “You see, Sir,
she had her mainsail lowered, Sir, and a hangin’ a bit sloppy over her
stern, Sir, an’ we was alongside an’ didn’t pass under her stern, Sir.”

“What sort of boats did she carry and how many?” asked Rawlins.

“Dories, Sir, six of ’em,” replied the sailor, “anything more, Sir?”

“No, I think that’s all. Thanks for the information,” replied Rawlins
and then, reaching in his pocket he handed the man several cigars.

Touching his forelock again and with a final hitch of his trousers the
sailor turned and strolled off with the rolling gait of the true
deep-water seaman.

“Well, what do you make of it?” asked Mr. Pauling, when the sailor was
out of earshot.

“I’ll say it’s blamed funny that packet was hanging around near the
sub,” replied Rawlins. “It might be a coincidence—Bahama smacks _do_
come pretty well up here during the summer—and she might have been a
rum-runner, but putting two and two together I’d say she was waiting for
the sub and that the crew were on board her when the destroyer came up.”

“Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “Then you think she was a West Indian
boat?”

“I don’t think, I know!” answered Rawlins. “A Bahama schooner—not any
doubt of that. Only Caribbean craft carry those two deck-houses and that
sprung jib-boom and the darkey skipper with the English accent just
clinches it. I’ll bet those square-heads were Russian Johnnies or Huns
off this darn sub. Say, if we don’t get a move on they’ll beat us to the
islands yet!”

“Gosh!” exclaimed Tom. “I’ll bet they took their radio outfit aboard.”

“I’ll say they did!” declared Rawlins. “And like as not they’ll be under
full sail for the Caribbean by now and working that radio overtime to
get word to the old High Panjandrum down there.”

“Not if I know it!” cried Mr. Pauling. “Come along, Rawlins. I’m going
to see the Admiral.”

The result of that hurried and exceedingly confidential interview was
that, as the boys and Mr. Rawlins were crossing the Manhattan Bridge in
Mr. Pauling’s car, they looked down and saw a lean, gray destroyer
sweeping down the river with two others in her wake, black smoke pouring
from their funnels, great mounds of foam about their bows and screeching
an almost incessant warning from their sirens as they sped seawards
bearing orders to overhaul and capture a Bahama schooner that, under a
cloud of canvas, was plunging southward on the farther edge of the Gulf
Stream, her mulatto skipper driving his craft to her utmost, while aloft
two monkeylike negro seamen were busily stretching a pair of slender
wires between the straining lofty topmasts.

Two days later, a black-hulled liner steamed out from New York’s harbor
and dropping her pilot also headed southward for the Bahamas. Upon her
decks stood Tom and Frank with Mr. Pauling and Mr. Henderson by their
sides, while in the Navy Yard, with a marine guard tramping ceaselessly
back and forth about her, a submarine was being feverishly fitted for a
long cruise.

After much discussion, Mr. Pauling had at last given consent to the boys
joining in the search for the mysterious master mind whose plans had so
far come to grief through their efforts, although he refused to consider
letting them go south on the captured submarine. But the boys had no
objections to this, for they did not look forward with any pleasure to
an ocean voyage in the sub-sea boat and were filled with excitement at
the thoughts of the adventures in store for them when they joined
Rawlins, and the submarine at a prearranged meeting place in the
Bahamas.

As they watched the skyline of New York fade into the mists of the
summer afternoon and the smooth gray-green sea stretched before them
beyond the Narrows, they were thinking of the adventures which had so
strangely fallen to their lot in the great city and Tom chuckled.

“Remember when we first called ourselves radio detectives?” he asked
Frank, “Gosh! we never thought we’d even strike anything the way we
did.”

“You bet I do!” rejoined Frank. “Say, wasn’t Henry sore because he
couldn’t go and wasn’t he crazy to find out what we were going for? It’s
great! And we’re real radio detectives now—working for Uncle Sam, too!”

“Rather, I should say, ‘radio secret service,’” said Mr. Henderson who
stood beside them. “But don’t talk about it. Remember the first thing
for a person in this service to learn is to hear everything, see
everything and say nothing.”

“We will!” declared the boys in unison.

“That’ll be our motto!” added Tom. “Isn’t it a bully one?”

“As Mr. Rawlins would say, 'I’ll say it is’!” said Frank.

THE END




BY A. HYATT VERRILL

    THE RADIO DETECTIVES
    THE RADIO DETECTIVES UNDER THE SEA
    THE RADIO DETECTIVES SOUTHWARD BOUND
    THE DEEP SEA HUNTERS
    THE BOOK OF THE MOTOR BOAT
    ISLES OF SPICE AND PALM

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Publishers, New York



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RADIO DETECTIVES ***


    

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