The Young Wireless Operator—Afloat

Books by Lewis E. Theiss

In Camp at Fort Brady

A CAMPING STORY. 304 Pages.

His Big Brother

A STORY OF THE STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPHS OF A LITTLE SON OF LIBERTY. 320 Pages.

Lumberjack Bob

A TALE OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 320 Pages.

The Wireless Patrol at Camp Brady

A STORY OF HOW THE BOY CAMPERS, THROUGH THEIR KNOWLEDGE OF WIRELESS, “DID THEIR BIT.” 320 Pages.

The Secret Wireless

A STORY OF THE CAMP BRADY PATROL. 320 Pages.

The Hidden Aerial

THE SPY LINE ON THE MOUNTAIN. 332 Pages.

Cloth Bound—Colored Frontispiece
Price, $1.75 net each

The Young Wireless Operator—Afloat

or
HOW ROY MERCER WON HIS SPURS IN THE MERCHANT MARINE

By
LEWIS E. THEISS

Illustrated by Original Photographs

W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON CHICAGO

Copyrighted, 1920,
By W. A. Wilde Company
All rights reserved

The Young Wireless Operator—Afloat

Dedication

To few of us is it given to know where our arrows come to earth or what shore is washed by the ripples we create in the sea of life. But so much is certain: somewhere our arrows do come to earth, and somewhere the waves we set in motion do wash the beach. And each arrow shot from our bows and each wavelet we set in motion is fraught with unseen possibilities for good or evil. Whether we be man or child or growing youth, we cannot escape the responsibilities entailed; and, if we do with our might what our hands find to do, our arrows and our ripples in Time’s sea can cause only good.

In His wise providence the Almighty has so ordained that the faith and enthusiasm of youth are often more effective than the coldly reasoned acts of maturity. If so be that many lads shall read this and companion stories of the wireless and find therein either pleasure or profit, they will owe their gain to the fact that a youth who has passed to the great beyond shot his arrow into the air with all the courage and enthusiasm that a high soul and a brave heart could command. To that youth,

Nelson Kimball Wilde

whose boyish enthusiasm for radio communication first interested the writer in wireless telegraphy, this book is affectionately dedicated.

Foreword

To-day the American Merchant Marine commands the respect of the world, for in increasing numbers vessels flying the Stars and Stripes are seen on every sea.

That our boys may know more about the many experiences which such vessels encounter and to tell the story of how Roy Mercer made good as a wireless operator upon one of these vessels, is the purpose of the author in penning this story of life on the high sea.

Contents

The Young Wireless
Operator—Afloat

CHAPTER I
THE NEW WIRELESS MAN

Roy Mercer sat by a window in a fast express-train that was rushing across the Newark meadows on the way to New York City. Three years previously Roy had made a similar trip. As he looked back now over those three years, it seemed to him impossible that so much could have happened in so short a time. When he had first crossed these same meadows the country was engaged in deadly warfare, and he had come, with other members of the Camp Brady Wireless Patrol, to help the government find the secret wireless system by which German spies were sending abroad information as to the movements of American troops and American transports. Long ago the wireless patrol had accomplished its work and gone home. Now the great World War was ended. And although peace had not been formally declared, more than seven months had already elapsed since the signing of the armistice that had brought an end to the terrible conflict. In that period the nation had swung back into its accustomed channels, and the activities of peace had succeeded the feverish efforts of war.

But the thing that had made the greatest difference in Roy’s life was the death of his father. Long ago the cherished hope of a college course had disappeared, for upon Roy had devolved the duty of caring, not only for himself, but also for his mother. Manfully he had put aside his desire and taken up the hard task that confronted him. Through great determination and perseverance, coupled with the devotion of his mother, Roy had managed to complete his course at the Central City High School. Now, at nineteen years of age, he was about to make his way alone in the world.

His active outdoor life, and the hard work he had been compelled to do since the death of his father, had developed Roy both physically and mentally. Always alert, keen, and quick, in these last few months he had developed unusual qualities of self-reliance, trustworthiness, and good judgment that promised well for his future success. But Roy was fortunate enough to have more than good qualities to start life with. Unlike many boys who go to New York to seek their fortunes, Roy already had a job. He was going to be the wireless man on the steamship Lycoming. The vessel was one of the new steamers built by Uncle Sam during the war, and was very shortly to make her maiden trip as a coastwise liner between New York and Galveston.

As Roy sat musing over the events that had led up to his present journey to America’s greatest seaport, his train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the loud voice of a brakeman.

“Manhattan Transfer!” shouted that individual. “Change cars for lower New York. This car goes to the Pennsylvania Station at Thirty-third Street.”

The train came to a grinding stop. Immediately there was great hustle and bustle. Passengers poured out of the coaches and crossed the narrow platform to the waiting cars on the farther track. Others stood on the platform ready to swarm into the newly arrived train. Roy’s destination was lower Manhattan, but he made no move to change cars. His orders did not require him to report for duty until the next day. He was in no hurry. He had come a day ahead of time in order to familiarize himself with his instruments and his new quarters, and make the acquaintance of his future associates. Just now he wanted to see something of the city. So he sat quietly in his seat, watching the hurrying throng on the platform.

Presently there was a slight shock that jarred the great steel coaches, and Roy knew that the big steam locomotive that had hauled the train from Central City had been replaced by an electric locomotive that was to pull the train through the tunnel under the Hudson River. A few seconds later the conductor cried out his warning, and the train glided smoothly away from the long platform. Soon it was flying across the stretches of meadow that lay between the junction point they had just left and the landward side of the Palisades, where it would plunge under ground.

The very last leg of Roy’s journey had begun. The very last step in that long stairway of years that led from the cradle to man’s estate was under foot. For though Roy lacked two years of his majority, he was henceforth to take a man’s place among men. Roy thrilled at the thought that inside of twenty-four hours he would no longer be plain Roy Mercer, the Central City High School lad, but Mr. Mercer of the Marconi service, with his own quarters aboard a fine ship, a place at the officers’ table, and a smart uniform. Perhaps the idea of the uniform appealed to Roy quite as much as did the knowledge that he was about to take his place among the ship’s officers. His heart beat fast, and his whole being thrilled with pride at the thought that he was the youngest operator in the Marconi service. Roy fairly hugged himself as he thought of his good luck in securing such a desirable berth.

Then the thought came to him that perhaps it wasn’t all luck after all. Certainly, he thought, he must have deserved at least a part of his good fortune. There was nothing conceited about Roy. But he knew, as no one else could know, how hard he had worked to perfect himself in wireless telegraphy, and how faithful he had been in the performance of his duty as a member of the wireless patrol. For it was the reputation that he had made during the wireless patrol’s search for the secret wireless that had won him his present position as wireless man on the Lycoming.

Straightway he fell to musing over the events of the years that had passed since his first summer in camp at Fort Brady. Vividly he recalled how he and Henry Harper had slowly and laboriously constructed their first wireless outfits after some blueprint patterns sent to Henry by the latter’s uncle; how every member of the Camp Brady group had made a similar instrument; how the little band had become the wireless patrol when war threatened, and how they had run down the German dynamiters at Elk City. With pride he thought of his recent services in New York, when he and three other members of the wireless patrol had been selected to help the United States Secret Service uncover the secret wireless of the Germans. Roy was not the sort of boy to flatter himself, but he knew well enough that never in the world would he have been accepted in the Marconi service at his age or been made wireless man on the Lycoming had it not been for the efficient work done in days past.

“It’s a mighty encouraging thing to know,” said Roy to himself, “that my getting the job wasn’t all kick. If I earned this place, I can earn a still better one. But it means hard work. It means that I’ve got to be absolutely faithful in everything I do, always on the job, always on the lookout to help the company, always courteous to passengers, always helpful to my captain. Gee whiz! It’s some job ahead of me. I can see that all right. And I can see that above everything else I’ve got to make good with my captain. What he says about my work will determine whether or not I ever get ahead. But I’ll make good. I’ve just got to. I’ve done it before and I can again. But it means work, work, work.”

Roy’s heart beat high with courage. His jaws tightened and a look of determination came into his face. Then succeeded a glow of pride as Roy thought of the times he had already been tried and had made good. He smiled with satisfaction as he recalled that it was he who caught the message of the German spies at Elk City.

How well he recalled his vigil that night. How long the hours were. How dark and still it was there in the forest, with his comrades of the wireless patrol all asleep and he alone left to guard them and to keep watch for forbidden radio messages. He recalled how sleepy he was, how he had fought off his weariness and listened in, hour after hour, for suspicious voices in the air. Even now his heart beat faster as he lived over the final triumph of that night. He could almost hear again that faint little buzz in his ear that proved to be the secret message they were watching for.

Suppose he had been asleep at that instant. Suppose he had been unfaithful in his watch. Suppose he had relaxed his vigilance for even a few seconds. The message would never have been intercepted. The dynamiters would never have been caught. The people of Elk City would have paid for his faithlessness with their lives. Roy shuddered at the thought of the awful wall of water that might have overwhelmed the unfortunate dwellers in that city had the reservoir been dynamited.

“But I wasn’t unfaithful,” muttered Roy to himself. “I did my work right, just as I am going to do it on board the Lycoming. And if I do, I’ll win the good-will of Captain Lansford, just as sure as I won that of Captain Hardy.” Again a look of determination came into Roy’s face. “I’ve just got to make good,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve just got to. And I will.”

A subtle change came over his face. Once more his mind had gone back to the scenes about Elk City. He was thinking of his secret journey in a motor-car through an isolated and rough mountain road with the outfits of his companions. Vividly he recalled how a big boulder had come crashing down the mountainside, breaking his steering gear. He smiled with satisfaction as he recalled how he had met the situation by improvising a wireless outfit with some wires, an umbrella, and the battery of his car. How pleased his captain had been!

“I’m going to please Captain Lansford just as much,” said Roy to himself, and once more that look of determination came into his face.

Then the train suddenly shot under ground and daylight was blotted out. Down, down, deep into the earth Roy could feel the train descending, though the grade was very gradual. His ears began to feel queer and he knew that he must be in the deepest part of the tunnel. Then the train moved upward. In another minute it shot into the light. Roy glanced out of the window at the high cement walls on either side. They were at the Pennsylvania Station. Roy rose and moved toward the door. His face was flushed. His pulse beat fast. He felt like a runner toeing the mark. He was about to begin the race of life. He felt fit. He was trained to the minute. His whole being pulsed with joy. He had left boyhood behind. Henceforth he would be a man among men. In every sense he determined to be one. All aglow with high resolve, he passed out of the train, through the great station, and into the roaring streets.

The glow of satisfaction faded from his face. Cold and hostile seemed the city. The rushing traffic appeared cruel and heartless, threatening to overwhelm even the vigilant. Passers-by were as cold and unfriendly as the hard and echoing stone pavements. They brushed by, seemingly indifferent to any one or anything but themselves and their own concerns. The very air was raw and chilly. The entire atmosphere was oppressive. It seemed to take the heart out of Roy. It made him feel how tiny he was, how insignificant in comparison with this great aggregation of forces that men had brought together. Suddenly Roy realized that this was the thing he had to fight—this roaring thing called a city, where every man’s hand would be against him, where he could get ahead only by brute force, by overcoming whatever obstacles rose in his way. Apparently there was not a soul to help him. Success or failure depended upon his own efforts. The thought was bewildering, crushing, disheartening. For an instant fear clutched his heart and blanched his face.

And that was not because he was terrified by the noise of the unaccustomed traffic, or confused by the hurry and bustle. Those features of the city’s life were as familiar to Roy as the city itself was, for in the weeks he had spent in New York during the search for the secret wireless, he had become well acquainted with the geography of the town. The difference was that then he was with friends. Henry Harper and Lew Heinsling and Willie Brown were with him, and their beloved leader, Captain Hardy, was always watching their movements to keep them out of trouble and direct their efforts. Then Roy had been among friends. Now he knew not where to find a friendly face. For the first time in his life he was realizing, as thousands of boys before him have realized, the awful loneliness that can come to one in a big city. The feeling almost overwhelmed him. Gone were his plans to see something of the city. A friendly face meant more to him now than all the sights New York had ever held.

“I’ll go straight to the Lycoming,” said Roy to himself. “Even if I don’t know any of the men on board, they will at least be friendly.”

He hurried over to Ninth Avenue and caught a south-bound elevated railway train. In less than half an hour he left the train and made his way to the water-front. The vast expanse of asphalt known as “the farm,” that borders the Hudson for miles, was seething with traffic. Skilfully Roy picked his way across the wide thoroughfare, dodging trucks and drays, and heading straight for the big piers of the Confederated Steamship Lines.

The watchman at the entrance stopped him and demanded to know his business. Roy explained.

“Go on,” said the watchman, but he looked at Roy suspiciously.

Roy passed on into the great pier shed. At one side of the pier lay the Lycoming. Nobody paid the least attention to Roy. He made his way aboard the vessel.

“What do you want here?” asked a sailor gruffly, as he slouched on the gangway.

“I want to see the captain,” said Roy.

“He’s busy. Come around later,” replied the sailor.

“I’m the new wireless man,” explained Roy.

“I didn’t recognize you, sir,” said the sailor, instantly straightening up and touching his cap. “The captain is in his cabin. This way, sir.” And he led Roy to an upper deck.

“Come in,” said a gruff voice, in answer to Roy’s knock.

Roy pushed open the captain’s door and stepped inside the cabin. “I’m the new wireless man, Captain Lansford,” he said briefly. “My name is Roy Mercer.”

The ship’s commander rose to his feet. He was fully six feet tall and large of frame. His hair was black, and heavy, bushy, black brows almost hid his dark, piercing eyes. His nose was large and hawk-like. So weather-beaten was his skin that it seemed almost like leather. For a moment he uttered not a word, as he looked Roy over from head to foot. Then, in a tone of utter disgust, he said, “You—a wireless man! Bah! A wireless babe! I’ll see about this quick,” and he stalked angrily from the cabin.

“Wireless man! Bah!” repeated the captain as he hurried down the stairway. “Thirty years I’ve sailed the seas and the only wireless I ever saw was God’s lightning. Yet I never lost a man or a ship. The owners have ordered it, and I suppose I’ll have to put up with their newfangled machines. But I’ll be hanged if I’ll have an infant in arms to work ’em. That’s flat. I’ll tell those Marconi people what’s what.” And he bustled angrily off to the telephone in the office at the shoreward end of the pier shed.

Meantime Roy stood in the captain’s cabin, disheartened and disconsolate. No wonder he felt downhearted. The man he must please had taken a dislike to him at the very outset. He did not know what to do, so he did nothing. With a heart like lead he waited for the return of Captain Lansford. Presently that irate individual came storming back.

“Get up to the wireless house,” he said roughly. “I’ve got to keep you for three months until a new class is ready. But I don’t need any wireless to run my ship by, so don’t you come bothering me. Good-day, sir.”

“Good-day, sir,” echoed Roy, but the echo was very faint indeed. Disconsolately he stepped from the captain’s cabin, found his way to the wireless house, and shut the door tight behind him. For the moment his courage was almost gone. Sick at heart, he sat down to think over the situation.

CHAPTER II
THE SECRET OF SUCCESS

“It’s the same old story,” muttered Roy to himself, after a time. “I wonder if they will ever stop saying ‘You’re only a boy.’ That’s what they said at Camp Brady. Yet the wireless patrol ran down the dynamiters when the state police couldn’t find them. That’s what they said here in New York when we were searching for the secret wireless. Yet we found it, even if we were boys. That’s what Captain Lansford says now. Shall I ever be old enough to escape it?”

Yet it was fortunate for Roy that he was but nineteen. At nineteen one possesses the resiliency of youth. One rebounds like a rubber ball. It was so with Roy. A while longer he sat, his head buried in his hands, his heart full of woe. Hardly could he keep the tears back. Then the buoyancy of youth asserted itself.

“Only a boy,” he said presently, straightening up. “Isn’t there anybody in the world who knows that sometimes boys have brains and courage and common sense? What was David but a boy when he fought Goliath? What was General Grant but a boy when he loaded the logs alone? Who fought the Civil War but boys? I don’t care if I am a boy. I can read and send wireless messages with the best of them, and there’s nothing conceited in my saying so, for it’s a fact. Only a boy, eh? All right, I’ll show them what a boy can do. Maybe that captain can run his ship without the help of wireless, but I’ll bet that after he’s had the wireless service for——”

Roy broke off suddenly and his face became very serious. “I almost forgot,” he said to himself soberly, “that I have only three months to serve on this ship. Just as soon as the next class is graduated from the Marconi Institute, I’ll lose my job.”

Roy’s face was very long indeed. “Maybe I’ll never get another place,” he said. “If I can’t make good on this ship, how can I ever get a job on another boat?”

For a while Roy sat in deep thought. Then a wan smile flitted across his face. “You’re doing just what Captain Hardy warned you not to do,” he muttered to himself. “You’re brooding over trouble. If Captain Hardy were here, he’d tell you to get busy and make good before you lose your job. That’s what he would say. Well, I don’t know just what to do, but I’ll make a beginning anyway. And that’ll be to get into my uniform.”

Roy jumped to his feet, opened his case, and took out his shining new uniform. Rapidly he put off his old suit and donned the new. A mirror hung at one end of his room. In this Roy surveyed himself with unqualified satisfaction. The trim, blue uniform fitted him snugly, emphasizing the fact that he possessed unusually broad, square shoulders and a slim waist. He stood up before the glass as straight as a young pine. Any one with half an eye for physique could have told that he was unusually powerful for a boy of his age and that he gave promise of being a man of great strength. His quick turns, as he surveyed himself, first on one side and then on the other, gave ample evidence of his agility. Could Captain Lansford, who admired physical prowess above almost every other quality, have seen Roy now, he might have formed a more favorable opinion of his new wireless man.

The Scriptures tell us that as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he. The truth of that saying was illustrated now in Roy’s case. The pride of his new position and his new uniform filled his soul. Gone was the stoop in his shoulders. The expression of gloom had disappeared from his countenance. In its place appeared the old look of cheerful confidence and determination. Straightway Roy began to look about him.

The glow of satisfaction on his face deepened. His little house, perched on the topmost deck like an eagle’s aerie, was snug and comfortable beyond anticipation. To Roy it seemed almost palatial. The portion that was partitioned off for his sleeping quarters contained his bunk, a commodious closet, the fine mirror before which he now stood, and all the other accommodations that would be found in a first-class stateroom. The woodwork was beautifully finished. Generous coils of steam-pipes gave promise of abundant warmth even when the fiercest winter storms were blowing. Convenient electric fixtures were provided for lighting. Altogether his quarters were so snug and inviting that Roy momentarily forgot his troubles.

When he had ended his survey of his little sleeping room and stepped into the wireless room proper, his heart fairly leaped with joy. On one side of the little cabin was the operating table, with its array of shining instruments. A leather-covered couch stood along the opposite wall. There was a small rack for signal and code books, stationery, etc., and a chair or two. But Roy gave scant attention to the furnishings. He had eyes only for the beautiful, glittering instruments on the operating table. The wireless outfit was complete. It included every necessary instrument, and each was of the finest type, with the latest improvements. Exultantly Roy fingered one after another. Never had he dared hope to have such an outfit as was now his. Of course it was not literally his, but nevertheless Roy felt all the joy of ownership. For three months, at least, it would be his. No one else might touch those shining instruments. Not even the captain, Roy fondly believed, would dare to molest them. Like Alexander Selkirk, Roy was monarch of all he surveyed.

But the mere handling of his instruments would never satisfy a boy like Roy. He sat down at the table and eagerly clamped the receivers to his ears. Skilfully he tuned his instrument, now to this wave-length, now to that. Clear as bells on a frosty morning came the voices in the air, and Roy’s eyes sparkled as he listened in.

By this time he had forgotten all about his rebuff by Captain Lansford. He was himself again, alert, quick, curious as to all about him, intently interested in every new phase of life. And life aboard ship was distinctly new to Roy. The voices in the air he had listened to a thousand times. To him they were an old story. But a great, ocean-line steamship was still a delightful mystery to Roy. He wanted to know more about it.

Laying his receivers on the table, he sprang to his feet, put on his new cap, with its gold braid and its letters wrought in gold, and left the cozy little wireless house. Hardly had he reached the ladder when his eye was caught by the activities on the pier. Though Roy had spent many weeks in New York, he had had small opportunity to see the shipping close at hand. So the scene on the pier below was as novel to Roy as though he had never been near a seaport.

Streaming in and out of the steamer’s hold was a double line of stevedores, each pushing before him a strong barrel truck. Those entering were trundling great boxes or bales. Those emerging pushed only their empty trucks. Boxes, bales, packages and parcels of every conceivable size and shape followed one another into the hold in endless procession, while as endlessly stevedores came empty-handed out of the ship. The steady procession of freight handlers reminded Roy of a double line of ants, some laden, others with nothing to carry. Many a time Roy had watched ants bearing spoils to their nests. Often he had marveled at their strength, as they dragged along objects greater in size than themselves. But never had he marveled at the ants as he now wondered at these brawny stevedores. Enormous boxes, twice or thrice their own bulk, and weighing, Roy felt sure, several hundred pounds apiece, they handled like so many bags of feathers, trundling them swiftly over the uneven plank flooring of the pier, shooting down the gangplank with them, often to the apparent imminent peril of their fellows. Yet never a collision occurred, and never a crate was spilled or upset.

When Roy grew tired of watching the freight handlers, he turned away from the ship’s rail and descended to the pier. For the first time in his life he had a really good look at the inside of a great pier shed. Jutting straight out from the shore, the long, narrow pier, built on pilings and tightly roofed over and walled in, extended an unbelievable distance into the river. With quick appreciation of its real length, Roy saw that one could run a hundred yards straightaway on the pier without covering half its length. In width it might have been seventy-five to one hundred feet. This great warehouse—for in effect it was that—was piled high with mountainous heaps of freight, and a seemingly endless procession of drays and motor-trucks was constantly adding to the store. From these huge piles the stevedores were bringing the freight they were rushing into the hold of the Lycoming.

It was a stirring sight to see the trucks constantly arriving and departing, some piles of freight growing bigger and bigger with every incoming load, while others as constantly dwindled in size. The former piles, Roy soon found, were accumulating for other ships, while the decreasing stacks had been brought on previous days for the Lycoming.

Roy gained thus his first inkling of what was meant by the term commerce. Never before had he seen such huge stacks of goods assembled in one place. It seemed to Roy as though all the wares of all the merchants in Central City would hardly make so great a pile if boxed and stacked together. Yet all these materials were sufficient only to fill two or three steamships of moderate size. When Roy thought of the miles and miles of piers along New York’s water-front, and realized that each pier probably contained fully as many manufactured products as the Lycoming’s pier, it seemed beyond belief. Then he thought of the labor necessary to handle all these mountains of goods. On his own pier dozens of men were at work. Motor-trucks and horse-drawn drays came and went ceaselessly, hour after hour. It was awesome to think about.

“And this,” said Roy to himself, “is only one of scores and scores of piers. And New York is only one of America’s seaports. Then there are all the railway stations and freight depots. My goodness! Think how many hands it must take to move all the stuff——”

Roy stopped in sheer inability to comprehend the vista of American industry he had opened for himself.

“Well,” he muttered after a time, “I see one thing. The whole country is united in a great business. If any part of that business stops it affects all the rest. Suppose all the boats along this river couldn’t make their trips on time. The piers would fill up so they would hold no more. That would throw the truckmen out of work. Shipments from the mills would have to stop. Railroad crews would lose their jobs and the mills would shut down. That would be an awful calamity.”

The idea was so appalling that Roy paused to ponder over it. “I see one thing clearly enough,” he said to himself at last. “Everybody everywhere has to do his part if the whole business is to run right. Our job is to sail the Lycoming safely and right on the minute. Maybe I won’t be with her long, but as long as I am with her I’m going to do my best to keep her safe and right on the dot. That’s my job all right.”

It was. And if Roy had been a bit older, he would have known that it was exactly the way to make good with Captain Lansford in particular and the world in general. Without realizing it, Roy had set forth the fundamental rule of success—to do with your might what your hands find to do.

When Roy had tired of watching the toiling stevedores, he strolled up the pier and out to the street.

CHAPTER III
ROY’S FIRST FIRE

So engrossed in the life about him was Roy that for the moment he forgot all about his troubles. On the street he encountered again the multitudinous traffic that had so depressed him upon his arrival in the city. But here it seemed to go at a slower pace. There were more heavily laden drays and fewer rushing motor-cars. Somehow the atmosphere of the “farm,” with its hard toiling drivers and signs of honest industry seemed different from the cold and callous air of Seventh Avenue and of Broadway. At any rate, Roy felt different.

Probably that was because he had made the plunge. Even if his captain was not what Roy had hoped and expected, the ordeal of meeting him was over. Furthermore, Roy was now on his mettle. Unconsciously he was reacting from the captain’s contemptuous attitude. Like any lad of spirit, his pride was hurt and his sense of justice outraged. His captain had condemned him without trial. Roy was determined to prove that he merited his commander’s fullest confidence rather than his contempt.

So now he walked along, holding himself proudly erect in his new uniform, his head up, his heart singing. In fact it could not have been otherwise; for, trouble or no trouble, he had at last reached the place every boy of spirits longs for: he had a job. He had made a start in real life.

The pier of the Confederated Steamship Lines was not far from the foot of Manhattan Island. Instinctively Roy turned his footsteps southward toward the Battery, that little strip of green that fronts the upper bay and that tips the end of the island like the cap on a shoe. Often during the search for the secret wireless, Roy had passed through this tiny park on his way to the Staten Island ferry, just to one side. But he had never really had time to look about. He decided that now he would explore a bit. Like any other wide-awake lad, Roy wanted to see and know all that he possibly could.

“I’ll look about the lower end of the island,” said Roy to himself. “Maybe I’ll find something of interest.”

Roy was right, but he had small notion of how much he would find that was interesting. The park was not unlike a half moon in shape. Paved walks, lined with benches, led hither and thither between the stretches of greensward, and trees and bushes beautified and shaded the grounds. A lively breeze was coming off the water, and this was grateful, for the day was a hot one in late June.

Roy made his way directly through the little park to the water-front. A low sea-wall, built of great blocks of granite, formed the very end of the island. Along this sea-wall ran a wide promenade of asphalt, with benches on the landward side. The sweeping wind was churning the bay into whitecaps, and these came slap! slap! against the sea-wall, throwing showers of water high into the air and drenching the promenade. Even the benches on the landward side of the broad walk were soaked by the driving spray.

But the thing that took Roy’s eye was the harbor. Six miles away, as the crow flies, rose the hills of Staten Island, where he and his fellows had watched so long for the German spies. Far to the right were the low shores of New Jersey, almost hidden in the smoke pall of the cities there bordering the bay. In that direction, too, loomed the Goddess of Liberty, symbol of all that the word America means to the world—the gigantic goddess whose high-held torch, flaming through the midnight darkness, shows the anxious mariner his way through the murky waters of the harbor. To the left were the shores of Brooklyn and the cliffs of Bay Ridge. While near at hand and almost in front of the little park lay Governor’s Island, with its antiquated stone fort, its barracks, and all the other buildings necessary in a military post. For Governor’s Island is the army headquarters for the Department of the East.

The miles of water, now tossing turbulently and capped with white, were alive with shipping. One of the great municipal ferry-boats, starting for St. George, was tossing the spray to right and left as she breasted the waves. Tugs, seemingly without number, were puffing and bustling about, mostly with great barges or lighters on either side of them, like men carrying huge boxes under each arm. Some of these barges were car floats, with strings of freight-cars on their decks. Some were huge, enclosed lighters, built like dry-goods boxes, and towering so high in air as fairly to hide the tugs that were propelling them. A string of twenty barges, like a twenty-horse team, with ten couples, two abreast and drawn by twin tugs far ahead of them, was coming down the Hudson. Heavily laden freighters of one sort or another were riding deep in the swelling waves. One or two sailing vessels, beating their way across the harbor, were heeling far over under the sharp wind. A motor-boat was scooting across the end of the island, and Roy even saw a venturesome Battery boatman riding the waves in a rowboat, at times standing out boldly on the crest of a wave and again almost lost to sight in the trough. But the sight that caught Roy’s eye and thrilled his heart was an incoming ocean liner, her high decks crowded with a multitude of expectant folks. Many of those folks were men who had come to New York, like himself, to seek their fortunes. But they had come from far across the seas. They were strangers in a strange land. Roy wondered how they felt.

“If those fellows come here and succeed,” smiled Roy to himself, as he watched the ship ride majestically by, “I’d be a poor pill if I couldn’t make good, wouldn’t I? Why, a lot of them can’t speak English, and they’ve never even been to school. I’ll make that captain of mine take back what he said.”

Poor Roy! If he could have seen all the difficulties ahead of him, he would not have smiled so confidently. But he could not, and presently he turned away from the harbor, still light-hearted, to see what further things of interest he could discover.

At that instant a bell clanged. Close at hand, and directly on the water-front, Roy had noticed a low structure with a little tower. But he had been so engrossed with the stirring spectacle of the harbor craft that he had paid scant attention to the building or the narrow, low craft moored to the pier in front of the building. He judged that this bell, which was still striking sharply, must be in this building. Curious to know what the bell signified, Roy turned sharply about. He was just in time to see a number of men in dark blue uniforms rush from the building, race across the narrow wharf, and leap into the little boat. The hawsers were cast off and in a second’s time the little craft was shooting swiftly from her pier.

“I never saw anything like that before,” said Roy to himself. “I wonder what that can be.”

He ran over to the little house, and on its front were the words “Fire Department—City of New York.”

“By George!” muttered Roy. “Those fellows are firemen and that is one of those fire-boats I’ve read about.”

He ran around to the seaward side of the building and took a good look at the little steamer that was plunging through the waves at a rapid rate. She was long, low, narrow, and decked over in the centre somewhat like a low lighter. She resembled a tug more than anything else, yet she was unlike any tug Roy had ever seen. Fore and aft and amidships, Roy saw long, glistening brass nozzles permanently mounted on the superstructure and he knew that the boat’s engines would suck up the harbor water and shoot it through these nozzles with terrific force.

How he wished he could be aboard of her. How he would like to help fight the fire. He wondered where it could be. The little boat was heading straight for the Brooklyn shore. There Roy saw smoke rolling upward in great clouds from a pier shed. The distance was so great that Roy could not see distinctly, but he was sure that tugs were trying to pull a great steamship from her berth beside the burning pier. Even as he watched, flames burst from the shed. They swept outward in great sheets as they were fanned by the draughts within the shed. To Roy it seemed as though the flames were fairly licking the helpless liner.

“Will they get her away in time?” Roy asked himself, and his heart almost stood still as he watched the struggle. It seemed to him that the great ship was moving, but he could not be sure. Intently he watched. After a few minutes he was certain that the distance between the pier and the ship was growing greater. But it was still so small that the flames blew about the boat like clouds of fire, and Roy knew that blazing embers must be fairly raining on the ship’s decks.

So fascinated was he by the struggle that he completely forgot the little fire-boat until suddenly it shot into his field of vision. It steamed directly between the endangered ship, from which Roy could now see puffs of smoke arising, and the blazing pier. In another instant Roy saw great columns of water shoot from the fire-boat’s nozzles and fall in drenching torrents on the helpless liner. Gradually the tugs pushed the huge craft farther and farther from the shore. The fire-boat stood alongside and hurled thousands of gallons of water over her, until the last vestige of smoke disappeared from the big ship. Then the fire-boat steamed close to the pier, which was now a roaring bonfire, and played its streams steadily into the flames.

Roy heaved a sigh of relief. “They saved her,” he said to himself. “They saved her. But suppose there had been no fire-boat. The land engines couldn’t have helped her a bit. She’d have burned to the water’s edge. That would have been terrible.”

It came to Roy that a fire at sea was a million times worse than a conflagration like the one he was watching. “Those people over there,” he muttered, as he looked at the rescued ship, “could have gotten away even if the ship had burned. The tugs would have taken them off. But if a ship ever got afire on the ocean the people aboard wouldn’t have one chance in a thousand.”

Suddenly a great light leaped into his eyes. “Yes, they would,” he corrected himself. “And that chance would be the wireless. It could bring help to a ship at sea just as surely as that fire gong brought the fire-boat.”

On his face came a look of deepest determination. “If ever anything like that happens on the Lycoming,” he muttered.

But the sentence went unfinished. Again the gong in the fire-house clanged its warning. It was another alarm. Hardly had it sounded before a whistle shrieked long and sharply at the western end of the Battery. Everywhere whistles were tooting, as vessels exchanged signals with one another in the crowded harbor; but this whistle was so insistent, so unlike the tooting signals all about him, that Roy turned to discover what could have made it. He was just in time to see a little steamer poke her nose out from behind the pier at the western end of the promenade. Sharply the craft turned eastward and in another moment was speeding past Roy almost in the path the fire-boat had taken. The boat was a small, shapely craft that looked more like a private yacht than anything else. What instantly caught Roy’s eye were the wireless antennæ strung above the boat.

Roy’s eyes sparkled. “That’s the police boat Patrol,” he thought. “She’s going to the fire.” And his mind went back to the night when he and his companions had raced up the East River on that same little craft in their search for the secret wireless.

For a long time Roy stood looking at the little police boat as she fought her way through the swirling current, but actually he saw nothing. He was lost in thought. Then a passer-by caught his attention. Scores of persons had gone by while Roy was watching the fire, yet he had paid no heed to any of them. But the instant his eye rested on this man Roy felt attracted to him.

The stranger was somewhat stout and his face was tanned a deep brown, as though he had been exposed to wind and weather. He wore a well-fitting suit of yachting flannels and a yachting cap of blue was set rather rakishly on his head. Roy instantly decided that the stranger must be a seafaring man. But what attracted Roy to the man was the latter’s jolly, friendly expression. He fairly exuded good nature. Roy felt that he would like to know the man. The stranger, however, hardly noticed Roy, but walked rapidly along the promenade, with a step that was wonderfully light and quick for a man of his build. Roy knew that it was impolite to stare at people, but he was so drawn to this passer-by that he couldn’t resist the temptation to turn around and watch him. In another second he was glad he had done so.

A great wave crashed against the sea-wall and showered both Roy and the stranger with spray. Roy was annoyed at getting his new uniform wet. The stranger only laughed, though he was far wetter than Roy. From a side pocket of his coat he drew a white handkerchief and wiped the spray from his face. With the handkerchief he pulled out a letter. He did not notice it, and in a second the wind whirled it away through the park.

“Wait a minute,” shouted Roy. “You lost a letter.” And he dashed across the green after the flying envelope. His voice was drowned in the babel of sounds and the stranger went on his way unheeding.

Roy pursued the elusive paper almost to Broadway before he managed to clutch it. Then he turned and dashed back across the park. The stranger had disappeared, but Roy knew that he could single the man out because of his white clothes. So he ran on down the promenade in the direction the stranger had taken. But he could find him nowhere. Roy reached the western end of the promenade and looked up West Street. The man was nowhere in sight.

“He couldn’t have gone much farther than this,” reasoned Roy. “Probably he has gone into some building. He might have gone into the harbor police station. I’ll look there for him.” And Roy turned toward the building on the pier from beside which the Patrol had emerged.

He pushed open the door and entered the Harbor A Station. A lieutenant of police sat behind a big desk and on the floor before him was the man Roy was searching for. But the man’s expression had changed greatly. He looked troubled and worried.

“I beg your pardon,” said Roy, stepping toward the stranger, “but this letter belongs to you. It came out of your pocket when you pulled your handkerchief out and the wind blew it away. I shouted at you to wait, but I suppose you didn’t hear me. I had to chase it nearly to Broadway and when I got back you had gone. I’m glad I found you.”

“By George, youngster!” said the man, grasping the letter eagerly. “You aren’t half as glad as I am. That’s a mighty important letter. I discovered when I replaced my handkerchief that it was missing, and I stepped in here to report the loss. I thought I had been robbed.”

He looked the letter over critically to make sure it was all right. “You’ve done me a mighty good turn, youngster,” he said. “What do I owe you?”

Roy drew back, frowning. “Nothing, sir,” he said. “I didn’t chase your letter for money.”

The man looked sharply at Roy. “Then what did you do it for?” he demanded.

Roy was rather nonplused. “Why, why—there wasn’t anything else to do,” he stammered. “You lost your letter; nobody else saw you lose it; and so there wasn’t anything else to do.”

The stranger laughed uproariously. Roy felt almost hurt. His face must have betrayed the fact, for suddenly the stranger checked his laugh. “You’re a fine lad,” he said. “A fine lad. And it’s plain as the Woolworth Building that you don’t belong in this town.”

Roy was astonished. “I don’t,” he assented, “but how did you know it?”

Again the man burst into laughter. “Listen to that, Lieutenant,” he chuckled. “Listen to that.”

Then, turning to Roy, he said, “Where do you come from, lad? I see by your uniform that you’re a wireless man.”

Roy glowed with pride. “My home is in Pennsylvania,” he replied. “I’m the wireless man on the Confederated liner Lycoming.”

“The deuce you are!” said the man. “The deuce you are!” And his eyes fairly danced. Then he added, with a chuckle, “Have you met Captain Lansford yet?”

Roy’s sober expression was answer enough for the stranger. He burst into another hearty laugh. Then he said; “See here, lad. Don’t you pay any attention to Captain Lansford. His bark is worse than his bite. You do your duty and you’ll make good with him.”

“Do you know him?” asked Roy incredulously.

“I should say I do,” rejoined the stranger. “But I must be on my way. I’ve got a lot to do.”

He thanked Roy again for his kindness and turned away. But immediately he faced about. “Know anybody in this town?” he asked, then added with a chuckle, “that is, anybody but Captain Lansford?”

“Hardly anybody,” said Roy.

“I thought so,” said the stranger. “What are you doing with yourself?”

“I thought I might find something interesting down here,” said Roy. “I want to see everything I can while I have the opportunity.”

“Good boy,” said the stranger. “That’s the way to get ahead. You’ve come to the right place to see things, too. Why, lad, this is one of the most interesting places in all America. Yes, and in all the world—this neighborhood right here. I could talk to you about it for hours, but I haven’t time now. Go get yourself a guide-book and go over the place thoroughly. You’ll never be sorry. If you can’t find one, I’ll lend you mine. Good-bye.”

“But I may never see you again,” said Roy.

The man chuckled. “Oh! yes you will,” he smiled. “I’m going to look you up on the Lycoming. Good-bye.” He held out his hand, grasped Roy’s so firmly that he made Roy wince, and was off.

Roy watched him disappear in the crowd. He felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was no longer alone in a big city. He had a friend. At least, he believed the man was going to be his friend, and he was glad of it. But suddenly his face grew long again.

“I forgot to get his name,” muttered Roy, “and I could have had it without asking. All I needed to do was to read the address on the envelope. Now I may never see him again.”

For a minute Roy felt gloomy enough. Then he recalled the man’s promise to look him up on the Lycoming. “If he does,” smiled Roy, “I’ll bet a dollar I won’t forget again to find out his name. Now I’m going to take his advice and get a guide-book. Wonder where I can find one.”

A policeman was passing. Roy stopped him and asked where he could purchase the desired volume. The policeman directed him to a near-by book shop and in a few minutes Roy was back in Battery Park with a little guide-book in his hand.

CHAPTER IV
IN LOWER NEW YORK

“Now,” thought Roy, as he sought out a shady bench and sat down, “if this book will tell me, I’m going to find out why this park is called Battery Park. I’ve often wondered.”

He opened his book and, turning to the index, readily found where to look for the information. Looking on the proper page, he read: “Battery Park and Battery Place take their name from the fortification begun in 1693 by Governor Fletcher to defend the city. The original battery was a line of cannons extending from the foot of Greenwich Street to the intersection of Whitehall and Water Streets.”

“That was a pretty nice row of cannons,” thought Roy, glancing up from his book to see about where these guns had stood. With the geography of the city he was quite familiar, as it had been necessary, during the search for the secret wireless, for Roy and his companions to acquaint themselves with the city in order that they could travel surely and speedily. After he had measured the distance with his eye, he turned back to the guide-book and read: “The land beyond this line was under water until after 1800.”

At first Roy did not grasp the significance of the statement. But when he read that the original shore-line of the lower end of Manhattan Island is marked approximately by Greenwich, State, and Pearl Streets, he was almost stunned.

“Why, gee whiz!” he muttered. “That means that all this park, which the book says contains twenty-one acres, and all the ground on either side of the lower end of the island for two or three blocks inland is made land. Just think of that.” In amazement he stared about the little park, then looked at the two broad blocks between Greenwich Street and “the farm.” “Made land,” he thought, “every inch of it. Why, they must have made hundreds of acres. I wonder where they got all the stuff to fill in with. What a lot of work it must have been! And what a pile of money it must have cost. But I suppose it’s worth millions and millions of dollars now.”

He picked up his guide-book again. “The land under water,” he read, “was ceded to Congress by the city for the erection of a fort to defend the city. The fort, about three hundred feet from shore, later called Castle Clinton, was built on a mole and connected with the city by a bridge. In 1822 it was ceded to the state; in 1823 it was leased to the city, and in 1824 it was leased as an amusement hall, known as Castle Garden. It was roofed over and was the scene of Lafayette’s reception in 1824. In 1835 Samuel F. B. Morse here first demonstrated the possibility of controlling an electric current. Here Jenny Lind sang in 1850, and in 1851 Kossuth was received here. In 1855 it became the Immigration Bureau. In 1891 Battery Park was filled in, and in 1896 the building was opened as an aquarium.”

“Gee whiz!” smiled Roy happily. “I’ve often heard of the aquarium. It contains one of the most famous collections of fishes in the world. But I never dreamed that it was such a famous old place as that. I’m going to see that, sure. It must be that queer, circular brownstone building near the harbor police station.”

Roy’s guess proved to be correct, as the sign above the entrance told him. But before entering he walked completely around the structure.

“Makes you think of a stone bandbox,” said Roy, with a chuckle. “It’s so much like that funny building on Governor’s Island that they look like twins. I’ll bet that was another fort.”

Roy was right again. His guide-book said that the old fort on Governor’s Island was known as Castle William.

In walking around the aquarium Roy discovered at intervals what looked like window spaces that had been walled in. But he knew that they must have been the embrasures for the thirty heavy guns with which the fort was armed.

When he had completed the circuit of the building, Roy went inside. In the centre of the floor was a tiled tank, like the hub of a wheel, while strung around the wall, like the tire of the wheel, were tanks and tanks of fishes, so arranged that the light shone through the tanks, perfectly illuminating everything in them.

Roy went directly to the circular tank in the centre. It contained a great sea-cow or manatee. Often Roy had read of these curious creatures and he knew at once what the thing was. It was as big as a fat pig and had a broad oval tail, with fore limbs in the form of flippers. The animal reminded Roy of the performing seals he had seen at a circus. He had read that at night the manatee is said to come out of the water. He wondered if it were true. He was particularly interested in this fish for he knew that it lived in the southern waters he would soon be sailing. He hoped that he would see some of them in the sea.

In the tank with the manatee were some flounders. Roy was amazed to note that they were almost white, like the sand in the bottom of the tank. He had often seen flounders, but never any of that color. It puzzled him until he remembered that the flounder, like many another creature, possesses the power of protective coloring. Roy wondered how it was possible for any creature to change its color to match its environment. But, like many a wiser person, he pondered over the matter in vain.

When he had grown tired of watching the sea-cow and the white flounders, he walked over to the ring of tanks, and, beginning at one side of the entrance, walked slowly around the building. Never had Roy dreamed that there could be such fishes as he now beheld. Not only did he find the familiar fishes of our own waters that he had caught or seen for sale in the markets, but also he saw strange and curious creatures from every part of the world. What astonished him most was the vivid coloring of some of the fishes from the tropics. Roy had often seen parrots and other tropic birds, and he knew that the birds in these hot regions were more brilliant in hue than our own birds. But he had never dreamed that the fishes would likewise be gaily colored. Yet here he beheld fishes of red and green and blue and yellow, as brilliant in color as any parrot or parrakeet he had ever seen.

When he had become tired of looking at fishes, Roy left the aquarium and again sought a shady seat. As he opened his book his glance rested on the words “Fort Amsterdam.”

“I wonder how many forts those old fellows had, anyway,” thought Roy. “I’ll just see what it says about Fort Amsterdam,” and he began to read: “Before the first great fire visited Manhattan in 1626, the lines of a fort were laid out, occupying the site of the present Custom House, the work being completed between 1633 and 1635. Fort Amsterdam, as the work was called, was built of earth and stone and had four bastions. It rose proudly above the group of small houses and became the distinctive feature of New Amsterdam. The main gate of the fort opened on the present Bowling Green, which from the earliest days was maintained as an open space. It was, in fact, the heart of the Dutch town. It provided a playground for the children, a site for the May-pole around which the youths and maidens danced, a parade-ground for the soldiers, and a place for the market and annual cattle show. Here also were held those great meetings with the Indians, at which treaties were arranged and the pipe of peace was smoked. In 1732 it was leased to three citizens who lived close at hand, for one peppercorn a year, as a private bowling ground, from which fact it takes its name.”

“Think of that,” mused Roy. “They used to smoke the peace-pipe there. Now the place is surrounded by sky-scrapers, trolley-cars run past it, subway trains rumble underneath it, and elevated trains thunder by within a few feet. I wonder what those Indians would think if they could ever come back to earth and see Manhattan Island now.” Roy chuckled at the idea, but when he thought of the Dutch cattle shows he laughed outright. “Wouldn’t a herd of cattle tethered in Bowling Green create a sensation now?” he said to himself. “I must take a look at that place.”

He jumped up and crossed the park, heading for the Custom-house at the eastern end. This was a huge building, some seven stories in height, that covered an entire block. Roy walked around it, pausing finally to admire the groups of beautiful statuary that adorned the front of the building. For a long time Roy gazed at the Custom-house, and the longer he looked the more beautiful he thought the building was.

He had often seen it on his previous visit, but he had been so preoccupied then that he had given little thought to it or any other building. Though he had learned well the geography of the city, in order that he might get about with facility, he had learned nothing of the history or meaning of New York. Now that he was looking at things from a new point of view, it seemed as though he had never seen them before. It was so with Bowling Green. Often he had passed the little fenced-in oval of grass, with its few benches and a tree or two, but it had been to him only a tiny bit of green. It had held no meaning. Now in fancy he saw the old fort with its little parade-ground, its gates open, and the Dutch soldiers marching out to drill. He pictured the boys and girls frolicking about the May-pole. And when he thought of the cattle shows, he laughed again.

Roy went into the tiny oval and sat down on a bench to think this all over. “It was almost three hundred years ago,” he mused, “when they built that old fort. That’s a long time. It’s so long that I suppose there isn’t a thing left that was standing in those days. That’s funny, too, for I’ve read that in England there are buildings hundreds and hundreds of years old. I wonder what’s the oldest thing here.”

Roy looked about but could find nothing that he thought seemed very old. “That’s the queer thing about New York,” was his comment. “There never has been much in it that is old. They keep tearing things down and building new things in their places all the time. No wonder they say that New York will never be finished. There isn’t anything old here.”

But Roy was mistaken, and when he fell to reading in his guide-book again he discovered it. For the fence that surrounded the little oval was almost a century and a half old. “This fence,” Roy read, “was imported from England in 1771 to enclose a lead equestrian statue of George III. On the posts were the royal insignia. In 1776, during the Revolution, the lead statue was dragged down and moulded into bullets by the colonists, and the royal insignia were knocked from the tops of the posts. The fractures can still be seen.”

Roy jumped up and ran over to the fence. Sure enough, each post showed plainly that its top had been broken off. Roy was amazed.

“To think that this fence was standing at the time of the Revolution,” he thought. “Why, Washington must have been here often and he probably looked at these broken posts just as I have.”

Doubtless Washington did see the posts. Certainly he must have been in the Bowling Green many a time. Only a short distance from the Bowling Green, in Fraunces Tavern, at Broad and Pearl Streets, Washington said farewell to forty-four of his officers at the close of the Revolution, a fact that Roy soon discovered from his guide-book. Immediately he hurried away to take a look at this beautiful old building of colonial design, made of yellow Dutch bricks. Roy admired it very much. A bronze tablet on the corner of the building stated that it was now the property of the Sons of the Revolution.

“Good!” thought Roy. “Now I know of two things in New York that haven’t been torn down. And I don’t believe they ever will be.”

When Roy looked further in his book he found there were many, many old things remaining, so many that he could not hope to see them in one day, and particularly not on this day, for it was already supper time. But there was one place that Roy was eager to see. The guide-book said that a tablet on the building at 41 Broadway marked the site of the first houses or huts erected on Manhattan Island by white men. They were built about 1613.

“I’ll just walk up Broadway,” thought Roy, “and see that tablet. Then I’ll go on up Broadway, get something to eat, and go back to the Lycoming after supper. I suppose I could get a meal aboard the Lycoming, but likely I’d have to eat with Captain Lansford.”

Roy walked slowly up the longest street in the world; for Broadway, extending far beyond the limits of New York City, and passing through one community after another, is still Broadway half a hundred miles from Bowling Green. He could hardly have gone otherwise than slowly if he had tried, for it was the evening rush hour. From every doorway people were pouring out into the street. The sidewalks were jammed. The roadway was so crowded with busses and trucks and drays and trolley-cars and automobiles that it was next to impossible to cross it. Bells were clanging, automobile horns honking, whistles blowing. Iron-shod hoofs rang on the pavements. Leather shoes scraped and shuffled on the stone sidewalks. And all these noises combined in one ceaseless roar that beat on the ear incessantly. But what most impressed Roy was the unceasing rush of people. Apparently there was no end to them. Doorways of high buildings fairly vomited human beings. But no matter how many persons issued forth, more remained to come out. Time and time again Roy had seen this evening rush for home, and always he was impressed by it. It seemed impossible that there could be so many workers in the city. But when he remembered that some of the tall buildings about him held as many as ten thousand persons,—almost as many people as there were in the whole town of Central City—the rush did not seem so incomprehensible. Every time Roy looked at the crowd he thought of the ceaseless flow of a rushing stream.

Roy paused when he reached 41 Broadway and read the tablet on the wall. But he passed on quickly, for the crowded sidewalk was a poor place to loiter, and the tumult of traffic drove from his head all thoughts of those sleepy old days when New York was New Amsterdam.

Roy was now in the very heart of that deep canyon formed by the huge buildings in lower Broadway. He knew that nowhere else in the world could one find structures like them. There they towered, ten, twenty, thirty, forty stories high, until it made one almost dizzy to look up at them. Like the traffic in the street, Roy had seen them often; but now, as always when he saw them near at hand, he marveled at these huge structures man had reared two and even three times as high as Niagara, while the gigantic Woolworth Building, more than four and a half times the height of Niagara, towered a full seven hundred and fifty feet above the sidewalk. As Roy looked up Broadway at it now he could not help feeling awed.

“Just think,” he muttered, “it’s two hundred feet longer than the Lycoming.”

Just then Roy came to a quick lunch room. His eye brightened as he caught sight of it, for he had had nothing to eat for several hours, and the salt breeze in the park had whetted an appetite already keen.

Roy entered and ate generously. He took his time about it. Now that he was relaxed, he found that he was really tired. When he came out of the restaurant he was amazed at the altered appearance of the street. The crowd had disappeared. Gone was the multitude of trucks, drays and motor-cars. A few belated pedestrians were hurrying along the street, and an occasional wagon rattled by. But now every hoof beat and every creak of wheel or wagon-body echoed through the deserted thoroughfare, flung back by the empty hives of buildings that had so recently swarmed with life. More than ever Roy thought of that rushing throng of humanity as a surging tide; but now it seemed as though a sluice-gate had somewhere been closed and only a few tiny trickles were seeping through.

But somehow the deserted thoroughfare seemed almost more attractive to Roy than it did when it was seething with traffic. There was so much he wanted to think about, so many things on every hand that demanded consideration; and connected thought was almost impossible when so many persons were rushing by and such a confusing babel of sound smote on the ear. So now he sauntered slowly up Broadway, thinking about his own situation, and pondering over the interesting things he had seen.

One by one lights shone forth in the great structures about him—lights so high that they seemed like yellow stars in the sky. Slowly the outlines of the individual buildings grew dim and uncertain as darkness came on. In place of the hulking massive structures of stone he had been looking at by daylight, Roy now found himself gazing at what seemed like fairy towers of twinkling, elfin lights. It was wonderful beyond description. But when Roy looked at the Singer and Woolworth Buildings, with their beautiful towers of ornate stone rising hundreds of feet above him and brilliantly illuminated by hidden lights, he was sure that he had never in his life seen anything so beautiful and so wonderful. He could find no words to express his delight. But he was conscious that the feeling of awe which had gripped him as he stared at these same colored shafts by day was gone. Now he felt only a sense of charm and delight.

He continued up Broadway until he came to the seething centre of life about City Hall. When he looked across the little park at the entrance of the Brooklyn bridge, and saw the bustling activity of Park Row, he could scarce believe that one short block could make so great a difference. Roy did not realize that Park Row was the heart of the night life of lower New York. Centred about it were the homes of many of New York’s great newspapers, where scores of workers had just gone on duty and where the “day’s work” was only fairly getting under way.

Roy made his way to the entrance of the Brooklyn bridge and watched in wonder the endless strings of trolley-cars swing round the terminal loops, the streams of pedestrians still pouring homeward toward Brooklyn, the line of carts still rattling up the cobbled roadway to the bridge. When he expressed his wonder to the bridge policeman at the information booth, that individual only smiled. For years he had watched the better part of a million people daily swarm to and fro across the bridge; and the tail-end of the evening rush, that seemed so impressive to Roy, was commonplace enough to him.

After a time the scene paled on Roy, and he started for home—his new home on the Lycoming. Knowing well the city’s geography, he did not retrace his steps but struck off directly for the western water-front, passing through a maze of deserted, dimly lighted, little streets that were flanked by dingy buildings of five or six stories. The contrast with the blazing centre of life he had just left was as striking as some sudden shift in scenes on the stage of a theatre. In the quiet and gloom Roy had abundant opportunity for thought. His mind returned to the problem immediately before him: how he should make good with Captain Lansford.

So engrossed in this problem did Roy become that he did not hear a stealthy footstep behind him, and was startled when a form appeared beside him, and a tough-looking fellow demanded a match.

“Sorry,” said Roy, “but I have no matches with me.”

“Then give me ten cents for beer,” growled the fellow in a still rougher tone.

“I have no money to give you,” said Roy firmly.

“You haven’t, eh?” sneered the fellow. “Then I’ll just take it.”

He grasped Roy’s shoulder, but Roy wrenched loose from him and drew back. Quick as a flash the ruffian shot his fist at Roy’s face. Taken unawares, Roy could not dodge the blow, and it landed full on his left eye. For an instant he was almost stunned and he could see nothing. Instinctively he drew back and raised his fists to protect himself. Roy knew that he was no match for this hulking fellow, who was almost as large as Captain Lansford, but he meant to fight to the limit to save the few dollars he possessed. Roy believed that the best defense was an offensive, and though he could hardly see the man before him, he rushed at him and struck out with all his might. The fellow was as much surprised as Roy had been an instant before and the blow struck him squarely on the chin. He had been coming toward Roy and the impact was terrific. It bent his head straight back and the fellow dropped to his knees. Roy should have finished him with another blow, but he could not hit a man who was down, even though the man had attempted to rob him. He stepped past the man and walked rapidly toward the water-front, frequently glancing over his shoulder lest he be pursued. But the surprised robber had had enough. When he was able to get to his feet he slunk quickly out of sight.

“I got out of that pretty lucky,” thought Roy. “I’d rather have a black eye any time than lose my money.”

But Roy almost changed his mind when he reached the ship, for the first person he met was Captain Lansford. By this time Roy’s eye was both swollen and discolored, and his face was flushed with excitement. As luck would have it, he met the captain in the full glare of a bright light.

“So you’ve been drinking, eh?” roared the captain. “Don’t you know that drinking is forbidden on this ship?”

“I haven’t been drinking, sir,” said Roy. “Some one——”

Captain Lansford cut him short. “Don’t make it worse by lying about it,” he said harshly.

Roy’s flushed face grew redder still with indignation. “You have no right to say that,” he declared hotly.

“Do you dare question my authority on my own ship?” thundered the irate commander.

“I don’t care whether you are captain of this ship or President of the United States,” said Roy boldly. “You shall not accuse me of either drinking or lying. I never touched a drop of liquor in my life and I am not a liar.”

“If you haven’t been drinking,” demanded Captain Lansford, “how did you get that black eye?”

“A man set on me and tried to rob me,” replied Roy.

“And you were sober and you let him hit you in the eye? Bah!”

“He hit me when I wasn’t expecting it,” explained Roy.

“And what did you do? Run? Or hand him your money?”

“I knocked him down,” said Roy grimly.

“It’s likely,” rejoined the captain. “Now go to your quarters and don’t ever let me hear of your drinking again.”

Anger flamed up in Roy’s heart. “Don’t you ever dare to accuse me of drinking again,” he cried hotly, taking a step toward his superior and looking him straight in the eye.

“Go to your quarters,” thundered the captain.

Roy turned and slowly mounted to the wireless house. At every step his heart grew heavier and heavier.

“A nice mess I’ve made of it,” he sighed, when at last he reached the wireless house and threw himself down on his couch. “I’ll never make good with the captain now, never.”

CHAPTER V
A FRIEND IN NEED

It was characteristic of Roy that he did not spend much time bewailing his misfortune. “If the captain objects to my looks now,” thought he, “how will he feel to-morrow, when that black eye becomes the real thing! Gee! I’ve got to do something quick. Let me see. It ought to be bathed in warm water and rubbed with butter or some other kind of grease. I can get warm water here in my room, but I don’t know where to get butter. Maybe the cook would give me some.”

Roy jumped to his feet and started down the ladder. “Gee whiz!” he muttered. “I wonder where the cook is?” For the Lycoming was still a mystery to Roy.

He went down to a lower deck, then stood irresolute. Not a soul was in sight, the ship was dimly lighted, and Roy did not know which way to turn. Suddenly the door of the purser’s office was flung open and a flood of yellow light streamed out. Roy stepped quickly to the door and knocked against the jamb.

“Come in,” said a hearty voice, which Roy was certain he had heard before.

Roy entered and found himself face to face with the man whose letter he had rescued. He was so surprised that for an instant he couldn’t say a word.

“Hello, youngster,” said the man, as he took a quick glance at Roy. “Glad to see you. Come in. Just let me finish this manifest and I’ll talk to you all night.” But when he took a second look at Roy, he dropped the sheaf of papers he was examining and stepped forward.

“Now how the deuce did you get that?” he exclaimed, as he examined Roy’s eye.

As Roy started to tell him he interrupted, “Never mind how you got it. Let’s get it fixed first and talk about it afterward. Come with me, youngster.”

He darted out of his office and into his stateroom, with Roy close at his heels. Seemingly with one motion he set the hot water flowing in his wash-bowl and drew from a closet a bottle of vaseline. Almost before Roy knew what was happening, the man had him in a chair with a stinging hot compress over his eye, and another ready for application when the first one cooled. The man’s dexterity amazed Roy, who was anything but clumsy himself. When the compresses had done their work, the man began to rub the injured flesh about the bruised eye with vaseline. Round and round his fingers went, softly but firmly pressing the flesh, until Roy wondered if the man would ever stop. Finally the massage ended and a poultice was quickly made and deftly applied.

“There,” said the man, stepping back and viewing his job critically. “You’re fixed up as good as any ambulance surgeon could have fixed you. Now let’s hear how you got that decoration.”

“First, let me thank you for your help,” said Roy gratefully. “I’ll look bad enough as it is, but I’d have looked a thousand times worse if you hadn’t helped me. I wouldn’t care so much if the captain hadn’t seen me.”

“Did he, though? And what did he say?”

“He accused me of being drunk, and when I tried to explain how I came by a black eye, he told me not to make it worse by lying.”

Roy’s companion chuckled. “What did you tell him?” he demanded.

“I told him he had no right to accuse me of either. He nearly took my head off, and demanded to know if I questioned his authority on his own ship. I told him I didn’t care whether he was captain of the Lycoming or President of the United States, I was neither drunk nor a liar and that he had no right to accuse me of being either.”

Roy’s companion slapped his leg in huge delight. “Boy,” he said, “you’re made with Captain Lansford. You couldn’t have done anything that would please him more. He loves courage and there are mighty few people who have enough of it to stand up to him.”

Roy looked rueful. “He’ll never forgive me,” he said. “You should have heard him order me to my quarters.”

But Roy’s companion only chuckled. “Now tell me all about your eye,” he said.

Roy told him how he came by it. Then he added, “I suppose you are the purser, and I’m mighty glad. I don’t know how I can ever show my gratitude for your kindness, but I thank you with all my heart. My name is Roy Mercer.”

“Thank you, lad. Thank you,” said the purser. “It’s always a pleasure to help a good boy like yourself. My name is Robbins, Frank Robbins, and I am the purser. I foresee that we shall be very good friends.”

“I hope so,” said Roy. “It won’t be my fault if we aren’t. Won’t you come up and see my wireless room? And, by the way, I’ve got some crullers my mother gave me. You must try them.”

“God bless the lad!” ejaculated the purser. “Crullers—the kind that mother used to make—the real thing—and he wants to share them. To be sure, I’ll come. But let me finish that manifest first. Work before play is the motto on this ship.”

“I’d bet on that,” thought Roy, “if Captain Lansford had anything to do with it.”

The purser went to his office and Roy to the wireless house. But what a different lad he was from the Roy who had left it so short a time before. He had found a friend in need; and a friend in need is a friend indeed. Now his eyes were aglow and his heart beat merrily. He looked at his shining instruments as a mother views her child. Sitting down at the operating table, he adjusted his receivers to his head and threw over the switch.

A babel of sound smote his ears. It was after nine o’clock, and at that hour of the night the air in Manhattan was as noisy as Broadway during the rush hour. Everybody was talking at once, including no end of irresponsible amateurs, many of whom could send but not read. When they jammed, no one could tell them what trouble they were making for everybody else. Roy could hear big stations and little talking to one another through hundreds of miles of space. Stations far to the northward were talking directly over Roy’s head, as it were, with stations as far to the southward. Inland operators were conversing with shore stations, and ocean liners were exchanging messages with operators on land. It was as noisy as a five o’clock tea.

Though it was all familiar to Roy, it was as interesting to him as if he were hearing it for the first time. High above the multitude of buzzing sounds rose the shrill whine of the Brooklyn Navy Yard’s rotary spark-gap. Always Roy delighted to listen to the clean, clear work of the Navy Yard operators. Now he tuned sharply and listened.

“NAK—NAK—NAK—NAH,” called the navy operator. (Annapolis-Brooklyn Navy Yard calling.)

“NAH—III—GA,” came the reply almost at once. (Navy Yard. I’m here. Go ahead.)

Roy made a wry face as he took down the message that followed. It was in cipher and he could not read it.

But there was plenty that he could read. The radio station on the Metropolitan tower was shrilly shouting its news to the world. The navy station at Fire Island was talking with a destroyer at sea. Cape May was trying to get some ship far out in the Atlantic. The New York Herald was talking with a ship coming into Boston. Far out at sea the White Star liner Majestic was inquiring whether the Giants or Cincinnati had won the day’s ball game. The Hotel Waldorf was sending a message for a guest to Philadelphia.

Suddenly Roy started violently. His own call was sounding through the air: “WNA—WNA—WNA—WNG.”

It was the Tioga calling her sister ship Lycoming.

“WNG—III—GA,” flashed back Roy the instant the call ended.

“Hello,” came the answer. “This is Patterson. Who are you?”

“This is Mercer,” answered Roy.

“Glad to know you,” flashed back the operator on the Tioga. “Where you from?”

“This is my first job,” said Roy.

“Well, you’re right on the job and you send well.”

“Thanks,” answered Roy. “Come see me. When do you expect to get in?”

“Tuesday evening. Take a message for Lansford.”

Roy took down the message and said good-night to Patterson. He made a grimace at the thought of again facing “the old dragon,” as he mentally styled his superior. But before he could lay aside his receivers he heard Arlington preparing to send out the ten o’clock time signal and the day’s weather news.

“I’ll just take the weather-report,” he thought, as he set his watch, “and give it to Captain Lansford along with this message.”

Then the weather signals sounded. Rapidly Roy jotted them down: “USWB-T 02813—DB 04221—H 03622—C 03042—K 00223—P 03347.” (Wind off Atlantic Coast—north of Sandy Hook moderate northerly winds with fair weather—Hatteras to Florida Straits moderate northerly and easterly winds. Moderate showers Tuesday east Gulf Coast. Fresh to moderately strong winds over north portion with rain—moderate northeast and east winds over south portion.)

Rapidly Roy deciphered the code and wrote down the despatch, as follows: Nantucket—barometer 30.28, wind north, gentle breeze. Delaware Breakwater—barometer 30.42, wind northeast, light air. Cape Hatteras—barometer 30.36, wind northeast, light breeze. Key West—barometer 30.02, wind northeast, gentle breeze. Pensacola—barometer 30.33, wind southeast, moderate gale.

Carefully Roy wrote out the message from the Tioga, and signed it with the Tioga captain’s name, making sure that every word was written plainly and spelled correctly. “I won’t give him a chance to criticize me,” he muttered.

Then, after a moment’s consideration, he wrote: “The United States Weather Bureau reports the following weather conditions.” And he copied down the deciphered message and signed his name: “Mercer.”

It was the first time Roy had ever signed his name as a professional operator and he thrilled with pride as he looked at the neatly penned message with his own signature at the bottom.

But immediately the smile of satisfaction was succeeded by a sour look. At that instant his door opened and the purser walked in.

“Why so glum?” he demanded. “Worrying about your shiner?”

“No,” said Roy. “I was thinking how much fun it will be to take this message to Captain Lansford.”

“Now see here, lad,” exploded the purser. “You’re not going to take it. Don’t forget you’re not a cabin-boy, but remember that you rank with the officers. And, anyway, it will be just as well to keep away from the captain for a time. He’s used to having everybody kotow to him. Just show him you are independent. He won’t think any the worse of you for it.”

“Come to think of it,” said Roy, “his orders were to go to the wireless house and not to bother him.”

“Just push this button when you want a steward,” said the purser, putting his finger on a push-button in the wall that Roy had not previously noticed.