"I can't."

"Then won't you or some of us, have to be listening all the while?"

"No, for I think an answer will come only directly after I have sent cut a call, and it has been picked up by some operator. Still there is a possibility that some operator might receive my message, and report to his chief, or some one in authority over him, before replying. In that time I might go away. But to guard against that I will sleep with the telephone receiver clamped to my ear. Then I can hear the answer come over the wires, and can jump up and reply."

"Do you mean you will sleep here?" asked Mr. Damon, indicating the shack where the wireless apparatus was contained.

"Yes," answered Tom, simply.

"Can't we take turns listening for the answer?" inquired Mr.

Fenwick, "and so relieve you?"

"I'm afraid not, unless you understand the Morse code," replied Tom.

"You see there may be many clicks, which result from wireless messages flying back and forth in s.p.a.ce, and my receiver will pick them up. But they will mean nothing. Only the answer to our call for help will be of any service to us."

"Do you mean to say that you can catch messages flying back and forth between stations now?" asked Mr. Fenwick.

"Yes," replied the young inventor, with a smile. "Here, listen for yourself," and he pa.s.sed the head-instrument over to the WHIZZER's former owner. The latter listened a moment.

"All I can hear are some faint clicks," he said.

"But they are a message," spoke Tom. "Wait, I'll translate," and he put the receiver to his ear. "'STEAMSHIP "FALCON" REPORTS A SLIGHT FIRE IN HER FORWARD COMPARTMENT,'" said Tom, slowly. "'IT IS UNDER CONTROL, AND WE WILL PROCEED.'"

"Do you mean to say that was the message you heard?" cried Mr.

Damon. "Bless my soul, I never can understand it!"

"It was part of a message," answered Tom. "I did not catch it all, nor to whom it was sent."

"But why can't you send a message to that steamship then, and beg them to come to our aid?" asked Mr. Fenwick. "Even if they have had a fire, it is out now, and they ought to be glad to save life."

"They would come to our aid, or send," spoke Tom, "but I can not make their wireless operator pick up our message. Either his apparatus is not in tune, or in accord with ours, or he is beyond our zone."

"But you heard him," insisted Mr. Damon.

"Yes, but sometimes it is easier to pick up messages than it is to send them. However, I will keep on trying."

Putting into operation the plan he had decided on for saving their supply of gasolene, Tom sent out his messages the remainder of the day, at the intervals agreed upon. Then the apparatus was shut down, but the lad paid frequent visits to the shack, and listened to the clicks of the telephone receiver. He caught several messages, but they were not in response to his appeals for aid.

That night there was a slight earthquake shock, but no more of the island fell into the sea, though the castaways were awakened by the tremors, and were in mortal terror for a while.

Three days pa.s.sed, days of anxious waiting, during which time Tom sent out message after message by his wireless, and waited in vain for an answer. There were three shocks in this interval, two slight, and one very severe, which last cast into the ocean a great cliff on the far end of the island. There was a flooding rush of water, but no harm resulted.

"It is coming nearer," said Mr. Parker.

"What is?" demanded Mr. Hosbrook.

"The destruction of our island. My theory will soon be confirmed,"

and the scientist actually seemed to take pleasure in it.

"Oh, you and your theory!" exclaimed the millionaire in disgust.

"Don't let me hear you mention it again! Haven't we troubles enough?" whereat Mr. Parker went off by himself, to look at the place where the cliff had fallen.

Each night Tom slept with the telephone receiver to his ear, but, though it clicked many times, there was not sounded the call he had adopted for his station--"E. I."--Earthquake Island. In each appeal he sent out he had requested that if his message was picked up, that the answer be preceded by the letters "E.I."

It was on the fourth day after the completion of the wireless station, that Tom was sending out his morning calls. Mrs. Nestor came up the little hill to the shack where Tom was clicking away.

"No replies yet, I suppose?" she inquired, and there was a hopeless note in her voice.

"None yet, but they may come any minute," and Tom tried to speak cheerfully.

"I certainly hope so," added Mary's mother, "But I came up more especially now, Mr. Swift, to inquire where you had stored the rest of the food."

"The rest of the food?"

"Yes, the supply you took from the wrecked airship. We have used up nearly all that was piled in the improvised kitchen, and we'll have to draw on the reserve supply."

"The reserve," murmured Tom.

"Yes, there is only enough in the shack where Mrs. Anderson and I do the cooking, to last for about two days. Isn't there any more?"

Tom did not answer. He saw the drift of the questioning. Their food was nearly gone, yet the castaways from the RESOLUTE thought there was still plenty. As a matter of fact there was not another can, except those in the kitchen shack.

"Get out wherever there is left some time to-day, if you will, Mr.

Swift," went on Mrs. Nestor, as she turned away, "and Mrs. Anderson and I will see if we can fix up some new dishes for you men-folks."

"Oh--all right," answered Tom, weakly.

His hand dropped from the key of the instrument. He sat staring into s.p.a.ce. Food enough for but two days more, with earthquakes likely to happen at any moment, and no reply yet to his appeals for aid! Truly the situation was desperate. Tom shook his head. It was the first time he had felt like giving up.

CHAPTER XXIII

A REPLY IN THE DARK

The young inventor looked out of the wireless shack. Down on the beach he saw the little band of castaways. They were gathered in a group about Mr. Jenks, who seemed to be talking earnestly to them.

The two ladies were over near the small building that served as a kitchen.

"More food supplies needed, eh?" mused Tom. "Well, I don't know where any more is to come from. We've stripped the WHIZZER bare." He glanced toward what remained of the airship. "I guess we'll have to go on short rations, until help comes," and, wondering what the group of men could be talking about, Tom resumed his clicking out of his wireless message.

He continued to send it into s.p.a.ce for several minutes after ten o'clock, the hour at which he usually stopped for the morning, for he thought there might be a possible chance that the electrical impulses would be picked up by some vessel far out at sea, or by some station operator who could send help.

But there came no answering clicks to the "E. I." station--to Earthquake Island--and, after a little longer working of the key, Tom shut down the dynamo, and joined the group on the beach.

"I tell you it's our only chance," Mr. Jenks was saying. "I must get off this island, and that's the only way we can do it. I have large interests at stake. If we wait for a reply to this wireless message we may all be killed, though I appreciate that Mr. Swift is doing his best to aid us. But it is hopeless!"