Seaton. _He_ ought to be on deck, watching this."

The charter-man was speedily up into the open.

In the meantime Joe, at the powerful sending apparatus below, sent the spark leaping across the spark-gap, and, dashing up the aerials, there shot into s.p.a.ce the electric waves intended to be gathered in by any other wireless operator within fifty or sixty miles.

Crash-sh! a.s.s-ss-ssh! hissed the spark, bounding, leaping to its work like a thing of almost animal life.

Bang! This last note that came on the air was sharp, clear, though not loud. Whew-ew! A bullet uttered a swift sigh as it sped past the signaling mast twenty feet over the heads of the watchers of the "Restless."

"Confound it! Rascals on sh.o.r.e are shooting at us," exclaimed Powell Seaton, turning swiftly to peer at the forest-clad sh.o.r.e line.

"No; they're shooting at our aerials!" retorted Captain Tom Halstead.

Bang! Whe-ew-ew! Clash! Then there was a metallic clash, for the second rifle shot from the land had scored a fair bull's-eye among the cl.u.s.tered aerial wires. There was a rattle, and some of the severed wire ends hung down.

With an ugly grunt, Hepton bounded down into the motor room, pa.s.sing up the two rifles.

"We must be careful, though," warned Mr. Seaton. "This time they're not shooting at us."

"Load and be ready, though!" uttered Captain Tom, dryly. "They soon will be shooting at us."

Several more shots clattered out, and two more of the bullets did further damage among the aerial wires. Then Joe came dancing up on deck, his eyes full of ire.

"The infernal scoundrels have put our spark out of business," he cried, disgustedly. "We haven't wire enough left to send five miles.

Where do the shots come from?"

"From the sh.o.r.e," Halstead replied, "but see for yourself if you can locate the marksmen. We can't. They're using smokeless powder, and are hidden so far in under the trees that we can't even make out the flashes."

"It's out of my line to locate them," announced Joe Dawson, with vigor. "It's mine to see that the aerials are put on a working basis again."

He vanished, briefly, into the motor room, soon reappearing with a coil of wire and miscellaneous tools.

"Good!" commended Halstead, joyously. "Mr. Seaton, we have wire enough to repair a dozen smashes, if need be. On up with you, Joe. I'm at your heels."

Joe started to climb the mast, using the slightly projecting footholds placed there for that purpose. Tom let him get a clear lead, then started up after his chum.

From the sh.o.r.e broke out a rapid, intermittent volley. Steel-clad bullets sang a song full of menace about that signal mast.

"Come down, boys! You'll be killed!" roared Mr. Seaton, looking up apprehensively.

While Joe kept on climbing, in silence, Skipper Tom looked down with a cool grin.

"Killed?" he repeated. "Well, if we're not, we'll fix the aerials. We can't allow strangers to put us out of business!"

Joe found his place to go to work. Tom halted, with his head on a level with his chum's knees. From the sh.o.r.e there came another burst of rifle-fire, and the air about them was sternly melodious with the pest-laden hum of bullets. Two of the missiles glancingly struck wires just above Dawson's head.

In the lull that followed Joe's voice was heard:

"Hold the wire, Tom. Pa.s.s me the pliers."

CHAPTER XV

PLAYING SALT WATER BLIND MAN'S BUFF

"I've got to do something!" growled Hepton, his teeth tightly shut.

Raising his rifle to his shoulder, making his guess by sound, the man let two shots drive at the sh.o.r.e, not far back from the beach's edge.

Then, after a pause and a long look, he let three more shots drive, slightly changing his sighting each time.

"Come on, Mr. Seaton," he urged. "They're firing on your skipper and engineer this time. It's up to us to answer 'em--clear case of self-preservation. The first _law_ that was ever invented!"

Bang! bang! rang Seaton's rifle, twice. He, too, fired for the forest, near the beach. It was like the man to hope he had hit no one, but he was determined to stop if possible this direct attack on Tom Halstead and Joe Dawson.

Evidently the first sign of resistance was not to stop the bothering tactics of those on sh.o.r.e, for one wire that Joe was handling was zipped out of his hands.

"They mean business, the enemy," called down Skipper Tom, softly, to the tune of a low laugh. "But we'll get rigged, in spite of them. All we ask for is that they let us get the wire fixed often enough for a few minutes of sending and receiving once an hour."

Hepton and his employer continued to fire, using a good deal of ammunition. The guard was much more vengeful in his firing and in his attempts to locate the hidden marksmen than was Seaton.

"That's what those two men went ash.o.r.e for last night," called down Halstead, quietly. "First of all, to fool us and get us guessing, and, next, to hunt up some of their own rascals for this work. The seventy-footer led us into this trap on purpose. Finely done, wasn't it?"

"It shows," retorted Mr. Seaton, wrathily, "that along this spa.r.s.ely settled sh.o.r.e there is a numerous gang organized for some law-breaking purpose."

"Smuggling, most likely," guessed Tom. "And it must pay unusually well, too, for them to have such a big and so well-armed a crew."

Three more shots sounded from the sh.o.r.e. All of the trio of bullets went uncomfortably close to the young skipper and engineer, though doing no actual damage. Hepton, with his ear trained to catch the direction of the discharge sounds, changed his guess, firing in a new direction.

"There, it's done, until it's put out of business again," muttered Joe, finally. "Slide, Tom."

Almost immediately after Dawson disappeared the crash of the spark across the spark-gap and up the wires was heard. The young wireless operator of the "Restless" was making the most of any time that might be left to him.

"How about that storm that threatened last night, captain?" inquired Mr. Seaton. "Has it come any nearer?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "There, It's Done," Muttered Joe. "Slide, Tom."]

"No, sir," replied the motor boat captain, shaking his head. "It acted the way many September storms do on this coast. It pa.s.sed by us, out to sea, and ought to be down by Havana by now. The barometer has been rising, and is at nearly the usual pressure. But I don't like the looks of the sky over there"--pointing.

"Why not?" queried the charter-man, following the gesture with his eyes.

"We'll be playing in great luck, sir," answered the young captain, "if a fog doesn't roll in where the storm threatened to come."

"Fog?" Mr. Seaton's tone had an aghast ring to it.

"Yes, sir."