Читать книгу Radio Boys in the Secret Service; Or, Cast Away on an Iceberg - J. W. Duffield - Страница 4

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The trip to New York was begun early in the morning in order that they might reach their sailing point before dark. To Guy this part of the journey was monotonous, as he could not read and his mother advised him not to sit next to the window and look out, fearing lest the light injure his eyes, in spite of his amber glasses. The day was clear and bright, and the sun’s rays were reflected glitteringly from the clean, white snow on the ground.

Guy and his mother would have been greatly astonished if they had known of the interest in them entertained by the man in the next seat behind. Several times on the way between Ferncliffe and Boston, Guy got up and moved about, and two or three times he casually observed the prepossessing stranger. But the latter seemed always to be buried in a newspaper or book and oblivious to all about him.

The truth, however, was that Mr. Pickett took much more interest in the conversation of Mrs. Burton and her son than in his reading. While appearing to be reading most of the time, his occupation in this respect was largely a pretense, at least when the two in front of him spoke loudly enough for him to hear. Now and then he would turn a leaf for appearance sake, but not always did his eyes follow the printed line from one page to the next. However, his reading was not wholly affectation for occasionally he would turn back to pick up the thread of the narrative.

At Boston they changed cars, and again Mr. Pickett managed to get a seat immediately behind the two London-bound travelers. Once the amusing prattle of a baby a few seats back caused Guy to turn suddenly, and he was startled to observe the sharp eyes of the stranger staring at him with curious contemplation.

So deeply did the incident impress the boy that he turned again and looked at the man, but the latter was once more buried in his book. Guy then told himself that he must have misunderstood the gaze, that it probably was one of meditation or abstraction.

“Maybe he’s some professor of anatomy trying to figure out the diameter of a bonehead,” mused the boy. “I wonder who he is. It’s funny he happened to get the seat just behind us both times. Well, I’ll remember him anyway if I ever see him again.”

At New York Guy took a last curious look at the man with the high-crowned derby and then forgot him for the time being. The latter saw the boy and his mother enter a taxi and drive away, but he made no further attempt to watch their movements.

Mr. Pickett was a middle-aged bachelor living at a hotel near Central Park. Before starting for this place he ate supper at a restaurant. On arriving at the hotel he went direct to his room and wrote a letter, which he addressed to one A. Little in London. It was as follows:

“My dear Little.

“About the time this letter reaches you there will arrive in London a Mrs. H. G. Burton and her son, Guy. The kid is coming over to have his eyes treated. They’ll probably remain several weeks and will then return to New York direct. They will stop at the Morley hotel. By the way, the kid is bugs over wireless telegraphy. That’s his weakness. Maybe this will interest you professionally.

“O. P. Q.”

This letter was mailed as soon as finished, but another letter, written by another person, who had been secretly watching every move of Mr. Pickett, accompanied it in the same mail across the Atlantic. It was addressed to one W. W. Watson in London.

A. Little received the Pickett letter and delivered it to one Christopher Gunseyt, who, in turn, delivered it to another, J. C. Smithers, a Bond street jeweler. Meanwhile Watson received the other letter and also got busy. He observed secretly the passing along of the Pickett letter from Little to Gunseyt and from Gunseyt to Smithers. Then, by a series of cleverly camouflaged moves, he managed to relieve Smithers of the mysterious missive in such manner that the latter never missed it.

In the meantime, Guy and his mother registered for rooms at a New York hotel. Their steamer would sail on the following day, and their order for tickets and staterooms on the liner had been placed through a local agent at Ferncliffe.

Mrs. Burton had a friend in the city whom she wished to see on the afternoon of the day following their arrival at New York, and Guy had promised to send his brother a wireless message at 4 p. m. In the morning he telephoned to his wireless acquaintance, “V T,” whom, by the way, he had never met personally; indeed, he did not know “V T’s” name. They had often exchanged greetings by wireless, but had never introduced themselves, except by their amateur radio calls. “V T” had, however, given the Burton boys his telephone number and requested them to call him up when they came to New York.

As a result of Guy’s telephone call, the latter received a visit from “V T” at the hotel. The New York amateur introduced himself as Harry Taylor.

“I’m glad to know your name,” Guy remarked as they started for Harry’s home, “my brother and I usually spoke of you as Vacuum Tube, but we’ll be more respectful hereafter.”

Guy was delighted with his “new-old acquaintance.” He was with him most of the afternoon while his mother visited her friend. At 4 o’clock he called Walter and talked with the latter half an hour. Then he bade Harry good-by and returned to the hotel.

That evening Guy and his mother went aboard the liner. Early next morning the steamer floated from the harbor with the tide and stood out to sea.

Little of more than ordinary tourist’s interest occurred in the course of the voyage, which was completed on schedule time, in spite of two days and one night of very rough weather. The first stop was at Queenstown. The steamer did not go up into Cork Harbor, but lay out in the offing, having signaled by wireless for a lighter. After disembarking a number of passengers and delivering and receiving several bags of mail, the liner continued on toward Fishguard and Liverpool.

The vessel finally anchored near the mouth of the River Mersey and the passengers were transferred to Liverpool by lighter. Their baggage was “examined” by inspectors in a most ridiculously indifferent manner, it seemed to Guy, and then they were hustled aboard a fast express train for London.

Talk about speed! The train, with its odd compartments and widely-separated coaches, flew over that 175 miles to the metropolis of the world in two-and-a-half hours.

“I can’t see that we’ve got so much on the English,” observed Guy as the train sped on like a Chicago-New York Century Flyer. “I don’t see why we should call the English slow.”