"Where to?" Mrs. Nestor wanted to know.

"That's what I can't tell," was Tom's reply. "I will have to project them off into s.p.a.ce, and trust to chance that some listening wireless operator will 'pick them up,' as they call it, and send us aid."

"But are wireless operators always listening?" asked Mr. Nestor.

"Somewhere, some of them are--I hope," was Tom's quiet answer. "As I said, we will have to trust much to chance. But other people have been saved by sending messages off into s.p.a.ce; and why not we?

Sinking steamers have had their pa.s.sengers taken off when the operator called for help, merely by sending a message into s.p.a.ce."

"But how can we tell them where to come for us--on this unknown island?" inquired Mrs. Anderson.

"I fancy Captain Mentor can supply our longitude and lat.i.tude,"

answered Tom. "I will give that with every message I send out, and help may come--some day."

"It can't come any too quick for me!" declared Mr. Damon. "Bless my door k.n.o.b, but my wife must be worrying about my absence!"

"What message for help will you send?" Captain Mentor wanted to know.

"I am going to use the old call for aid," was the reply of the young inventor. "I shall flash into s.p.a.ce the three letters 'C.Q.D.' They stand for 'Come Quick--Danger.' A new code call has been inst.i.tuted for them, but I am going to rely on the old one, as, in this part of the world, the new one may not be so well understood. Then I will follow that by giving our position in the ocean, as nearly as Captain Mentor can figure it out. I will repeat this call at intervals until we get help--"

"Or until the island sinks," added the scientist, grimly.

"Here! Don't mention that any more," ordered Mr. Hosbrook. "It's getting on my nerves! We may be rescued before that awful calamity overtakes us."

"I don't believe so," was Mr. Parker's reply, and he actually seemed to derive pleasure from his gloomy prophecy.

"It's lucky you understand wireless telegraphy, Tom Swift," said Mr.

Nestor admiringly, and the other joined in praising the young inventor, until, blushing, he hurried off to make some adjustments to his apparatus.

"Can you compute our longitude and lat.i.tude, Captain Mentor," asked the millionaire yacht owner.

"I think so," was the reply. "Not very accurately, of course, for all my papers and instruments went down in the RESOLUTE. But near enough for the purpose, I fancy. I'll get right to work at it, and let Mr. Swift have it."

"I wish you would. The sooner we begin calling for help the better.

I never expected to be in such a predicament as this, but it is wonderful how that young fellow worked out his plan of rescue. I hope he succeeds."

It took some little time for the commander to figure their position, and then it was only approximate. But at length he handed Tom a piece of paper with the lat.i.tude and longitude written on it.

In the meanwhile, the young inventor had been connecting up his apparatus. The wires were now all strung, and all that was necessary was to start the motor and dynamo.

A curious throng gathered about the little shack as Tom announced that he was about to flash into s.p.a.ce the first message calling for help. He took his place at the box, to which had been fastened the apparatus for clicking off the Morse letters.

"Well, here we go," he said, with a smile.

His fingers clasped the rude key he had fashioned from bits of bra.s.s and hard rubber. The motor was buzzing away, and the electric dynamo was purring like some big cat.

Just as Tom opened the circuit, to send the current into the instrument, there came an ominous rumbling of the earth.

"Another quake!" screamed Mrs. Anderson. But it was over in a second, and calmness succeeded the incipient panic.

Suddenly, overhead, there sounded a queer crackling noise, a vicious, snapping, as if from some invisible whips.

"Mercy! What's that?" cried Mrs. Nestor.

"The wireless," replied Tom, quietly. "I am going to send a message for help, off into s.p.a.ce. I hope some one receives it--and answers,"

he added, in a low tone.

The crackling increased. While they gathered about him, Tom Swift pressed the key, making and breaking the current until he had sent out from Earthquake Island the three letters--"C.Q.D." And he followed them by giving their lat.i.tude and longitude. Over and over again he flashed out this message.

Would it be answered? Would help come? If so, from where? And if so, would it be in time? These were questions that the castaways asked themselves. As for Tom, he sat at the key, clicking away, while, overhead, from the wires fastened to the dead tree, flashed out the messages.

CHAPTER XXII

ANXIOUS DAYS

After the first few minutes of watching Tom click out the messages, the little throng of castaways that had gathered about the shack, moved away. The matter had lost its novelty for them, though, of course, they were vitally interested in the success of Tom's undertaking. Only Mr. Damon and Mr. Fenwick remained with the young inventor, for he needed help, occasionally, in operating the dynamo, or in adjusting the gasolene motor. Mrs. Nestor, who, with Mrs.

Anderson, was looking after the primitive housekeeping arrangements, occasionally strolled up the hill to the little shed.

"Any answer yet, Mr. Swift?" she would ask.

"No." was the reply. "We can hardly expect any so soon," and Mrs.

Nestor would depart, with a sigh.

Knowing that his supply of gasolene was limited, Tom realized that he could not run the dynamo steadily, and keep flashing the wireless messages into s.p.a.ce. He consulted with his two friends on the subject, and Mr. Damon said:

"Well, the best plan, I think, would be only to send out the flashes over the wires at times when other wireless operators will be on the lookout, or, rather, listening. There is no use wasting our fuel. We can't get any more here."

"That's true," admitted Tom, "but how can we pick out any certain time, when we can be sure that wireless operators, within a zone of a thousand miles, will be listening to catch clicks which call for help from the unknown?"

"We can't," decided Mr. Fenwick. "The only thing to do is to trust to chance. If there was only some way so you would not have to be on duty all the while, and could send out messages automatically, it would be good."

Tom shook his head. "I have to stay here to adjust the apparatus,"

he said. "It works none too easily as it is, for I didn't have just what I needed from which to construct this station. Anyhow, even if I could rig up something to click out 'C.Q.D.' automatically, I could hardly arrange to have the answer come that way. And I want to be here when the answer comes."

"Have you any plan, then?" asked Mr. Damon. "Bless my shoe laces!

there are enough problems to solve on this earthquake island."

"I thought of this," said Tom. "I'll send out our call for help from nine to ten in the morning. Then I'll wait, and send out another call from two to three in the afternoon. Around seven in the evening I'll try again, and then about ten o'clock at night, before going to bed."

"That ought to be sufficient," agreed Mr. Fenwick. "Certainly we must save our gasolene, for there is no telling how long we may have to stay here, and call for help."

"It won't be long if that scientist Parker has his way," spoke Mr.

Damon, grimly. "Bless my hat band, but he's a MOST uncomfortable man to have around; always predicting that the island is going to sink!

I hope we are rescued before that happens."

"I guess we all do," remarked Mr. Fenwick. "But, Tom, here is another matter. Have you thought about getting an answer from the unknown--from some ship or wireless station, that may reply to your calls? How can you tell when that will come in?"