It was Rozie who made the decision. Rosamund Brown lived next door, a comely, rosy-cheeked girl in her early twenties who wasn't too stuck up to come in and talk with old folks. Besides, there was something or other between Rozie and Hank Quiller; neither the Cap'n nor Mrs. Quiller knew just what. Rozie had many beaux and Hank might be just one of the long string. At any rate, when Hank was ashore he had first call on Rozie's dates.

"Isn't it perfectly wonderful!" Rozie enthused as she took a seat in the radio room that echoed with "Nearer, My God, To Thee" as chorussed by the entire congregation of the First M. E. Church in St. Louis, Mo.

The Cap'n gestured magnificently toward his five-tube set. "Ain't it unbelievable?"

Mrs. Quiller sniffed. "You're the one that's unbelievable, Lyman. The Lord knows I've tried hard enough to git you inside of a church here to home."

The hymn in St. Louis swelled to a finish; the "Amen," amplified to the last unit of capacity in Cap'n Quiller's set, filled the room.

"Let us pray," said the St. Louis pas

tor.

Mrs. Quiller and Rosamund bowed their heads reverently. The Cap'n, blushing furiously, bent over the radio not knowing whether to submit himself frankly to reverence or to pretend the second stage of amplification needed slight readjustment. The prayer droned on leaving the Cap'n undecided. When it came to an end the choir sang a Gloria response, a soft-toned harmony that sent the thrills chasing up and down the spines of the three listeners.

The Cap'n was the first to lift his head. "Now let's have a little jazz."

He proceeded by degrees and notches on the dials toward jazz. Along the way, there burst from the loud speaker a symphony orchestra in full volume.

"Oh, a symphony! Do let us hear some of that, Uncle Lyman."

"Anything to oblige a lady." With deft fingers the Cap'n tuned the symphony in-tuned it out a couple of times by mistake and finally brought it in closer and closer until you could almost

hear the swish of the conductor's baton. "How's that for a little old hand-made set?"

"Marvellous! Beautiful!"

"Real nice music," said Mrs. Quiller, nodding over her sewing and struggling to beat time with her foot to a Sonata that followed none of the accepted rules of music as she knew it.

"High-toned stuff, all right." The Cap'n pulled at his pipe. Personally he preferred a different brand of entertainment, but there was no accounting for tastes. He sat back contentedly and watched Rozie.

The symphony ran its smooth course, dipping into peaceful valleys where only soft strings could be heard, mounting to joyous peaks with horns, cellos, harps, and drums. . . . At last came the finale -a terrific finale with the kettles booming and the cymbals crashing. The loud speaker vibrated with a low thunder.

"They're applaudin' now," explained the Cap'n.

Rosamund joined in the applause. "Encore! Encore!" she shouted gaily.

The encore came, more Sonata perhaps or somebody's Melody in E Minor. Rosamund smiled happily while Mrs. Quiller nodded almost to slumberland. The Cap'n eyed them both curiously. He wondered if there really was anything between Hank and Rozie and, if there was, why couldn't Miranda get Rozie to tell her all about it.

Whir! Click! Bang!

The Cap'n jumped from his repose toward the dials. Before he could reach out, a husky voice spoke through the horn.

"The air! The air! For God's sake, give us the air!" Then came more whirring, more clicking, followed by a dead. silence.

"Well, I'll be hog-swoggled," exclaimed the Cap'n. "Ain't that queer!" He turned the dials this way and that. Nothing came.

Mrs. Quiller woke up with a start. "Quit monkeyin', Lyman. That was nice music."

"Sure it was nice but it's faded dead out on us now. Can't get nothin'. Must be somethin' wrong."

"Don't you want me to call Willie, Uncle Lyman? He's a good fixer."

"No, thanks, Rozie. Don't want to bother the boy. Had him over last night." The Cap'n whirled dials frantically but vainly.

Mrs. Quiller was disturbed. "Do call Willie, Rosamund. He'll just get it all out of whack without Willie."

Rosamund went to the window and called across to where her brother had his makeshift set hooked up. After a moment or so he responded. "Come over a minute," called Rosamund. "Uncle Lyman's set has stopped working."

"'S'all right," came Willie's shrill reply. "They just announced there's an SOS signal in the air and all broadcasting has been discontinued. Didn't you hear the government man askin' for the air? 'S'all right. They'll start up again in a little while."

The Cap'n received the news glumly. What rotten luck! The one night in the week he had gathered a fair-sized audience in front of his radio, some ship had to go and get in trouble and stop all his fun. He sat back gloomily in his chair and let his pipe go out. He was thoroughly annoyed. Mrs. Quiller and Rosamund didn't take the interruption quite so much to heart. They rather enjoyed the excitement of an S O S in the air. It was different and therefore thrilling.

A half-hour later the radio party was still in a position of status quo-no music floated through the air, no singing, no talking, a dull evening. Suddenly the front door flew open with a crash and up the stairs came Willie Brown three steps at a time. He arrived red-faced and breathless, struggling to say something but only puffs and blows coming from his mouth.

"Well, Willie," said Rosamund, with the customary sisterly sarcasm to younger brothers. "What's it all about?"

Willie manoeuvred his lips into a position where words were possible. "Hank! Hank's ship!"

"What about Hank's ship?"

"It's him sendin' the SOS. I heard it awful faint-KDP, KDP. That's Hank." The Cap'n collapsed completely. All his life he had faced dangers like this, but with the boy it was different. He was too young, too inexperienced, too unschooled

in the ways of the sea to be tossed recklessly into a real crisis. What would the boy be saying, what would he be thinking, what would he be doing? No, no-it couldn't be.

Mrs. Quiller, slower to understand, watched her husband's collapse before she realized what Willie's message meant. A dull moan was the only sign she gave. She took off her spectacles and sat back white and silent. Something had happened to Hank-something mysterious and terrible. To Rosamund fell full responsibility. With trembling lips she began to interrogate Willie.

"You don't know it's Hank's ship, do you, Willie? Nobody told you, did they? You just guessed it, didn't you?"

Willie, frightened by the seriousness with which his announcement had been received, wished he hadn't said anything. "I ain't sure, of course. But I know Hank's signal, KDP, and it sounded just like it to me. Awful faint but I've heard it lots and lots when he's been near New York."

The Cap'n lifted his head. He had a ray of hope. "Hank's down off Cuba now, more'n a thousand miles away. That set of yourn only receives a few hundred miles, don't it, Willie?"

"That's all, Uncle Lyman. I might 'a' been mistaken."

The Cap'n got up and comforted his wife. "There, there, Ma. Don't take on so. It ain't Hank's boat. Willie made a mistake."

Mrs. Quiller continued to sob softly. "I'm afraid he is right, Lyman. I have a feelin' the boy's in danger."

"Oh, tut, tut. Can't be, Ma. Jess to satisfy you though we'll let Willie tune in and see what he can hear."

Willie brightened. "If there is anything to hear, we ought to get it on your set, Uncle Lyman."

"Go to it, boy."

Willie approached the radio with a professional air. He swung the dials round to where he could receive the commercial wave lengths. Instantly the loud speaker vibrated with staccato screeches, impatient, imperative demands spelled out in telegraphic language.

"That's a government station sending," announced Willie. "Gee, I wished

I knew what they was saying." More screeches followed in a different key. "Another government station."

There came a silence that seemed ominous to the intent little group gathered in front of the radio. The Cap'n suggested a slight turn on the Vernier, but Willie vetoed the suggestion. There was nothing to do but wait, and as they waited the Cap'n's spirits returned and Mrs. Quiller became less afraid. Rosamund was more ready to cry at this particular moment than at any time before-cry or laugh, she couldn't decide just which.

Willie was the first to hear it, a feeble far-off wail-click-click, cluck, click; click-click, cluck, click.

"Listen!" breathed Willie hoarsely. "That's Hank."

Again it came, faintly-click-click, cluck, click; click-click, cluck, click.

Cap'n Quiller paled. "Sounds like what Hank told me to listen for. But I can't be sure."

"I'm sure," declared Willie. "Sure as anything. I've heard KDP too often not to know it now."

A long series of faint clicks stammered through the horn, mystic, maddening clicks that meant nothing to those who listened but that might mean life and death to those who were sending hundreds of miles away. Cold sweat stood on the Cap'n's brow. Never before had he felt so helpless with tragedy pending.

"We gotta do somethin'," he kept mumbling. "We can't jess set here and wonder what's goin' on. We gotta know what he's sayin', whoever it is that is sayin' somethin'.'

"Mr. Billings can read it slicker'n butter," suggested Willie.

"Ed Billings, the telegraph operator?" "That's him. He knows lots of the wireless codes. He had a bunch of us boys over to Sam's the other night readin' all the ship talk and everything." "Think you can git ahold of him tonight?"

"You bet I kin. Have him up here in a jiffy."

Willie left on the run. The Cap'n paced the room impatiently, stopping now and then in front of the horn to listen to the faint clicks, to the loud staccato screeches, to the whirs and whistles of the

ever-present static. Mrs. Quiller, huddled in her chair, watched the Cap'n's face eagerly, reading there every worry he felt and sharing them with him. Rosamund hovered about, wringing her hands nervously and trying to think of something to relieve the tension.

"Can't I make you a nice hot cup of tea, Aunt Miranda?"

"No, thanks, child. I'm all right. I wisht Ed Billings would hurry up and come."

"He's acomin'," said the Cap'n from the window. "I can see his lantern bobbin' up and down. Willie's got him runnin'."

Ed Billings didn't often run. He was a slow-moving type who saved his efforts for calamities and catastrophies. When Willie burst in on him, at the Baytown Pool & Billiard Emporium, he had apparently been able to convince Mr. Billings that the moment for action had come. By the time Mr. Billings arrived at the Quiller household he was completely exhausted and quite out of breath. He climbed the stairs slowly and laboriously.

"What's this about Hank's ship bein' in trouble?" he managed to inquire.

"Dunno, Ed. May be Hank and may not. Sounds like him but we can't tell. Set over here near the horn and see what you can make out."

Mr. Billings sank into the Cap'n's chair in front of the radio. As a new series of sharp notes came from the horn, he wrinkled his brow and listened closely. He took out a crumpled telegraph blank and a stub pencil, but made no notes.

"Key West sendin'," he said. "Code word for 'Who are yer and where are yer.""

The sharp notes ceased. Soon the faint clicking began. Mr. Billings cocked his right ear and began writing slowly with his pencil. "Gettin' anything, Ed?" asked the Cap'n.

Mr. Billings frowned. "Nothing but C. S. L., C. S. L."

Cap'n Quiller gasped. "Consolidated Shipping Lines. Go on listenin', Ed." "S. S. Omega. Is that Hank's ship?" "Yup." The Cap'n's head was bowed. "Lying forty miles south of Pedro Keys."

"My God! South o' Jamaicy. Don't I know them Keys." The faint clicking

tion and name of ship," Mr. Billings confided between dots and dashes.

"Forty miles south of Pedro Keys ought to be plain enough for any landlubber. 'Bout eight hours out from Kingston in fair weather." The Cap'n shook his head dolefully. "Bad place to be. Ain't much travel that way these days."

When the faint clicking began again, Mr. Billings started writing but stopped after a moment. "He's giving his position again same as before, only this time he says S. S. Omega in command of Captain Peters."

"Hell!'' commented the Cap'n vehemently. "What's the matter with Peters! With a hole stove clear through the Omega he ought to keep her floatin' longer than that. Ain't a trimmer ship on the coast."

Mr. Billings put his fingers to his lips. "Key West again. 'Keep... up... courage... Omega. . . . Warning . . . all . . . ships. to... watch . . . out . . . for... you.... Trying . . . to... get . . . in ... touch... with . . . Kingston.

Hope

. . . to . . . start . . . rescue ... ship. from . . . there. . . . Stand... by'. . ." Rosamund touched the Cap'n on the elbow. "Aunt Miranda is feeling better again. She wants to know what you have heard from Hank."

"What we've heard, eh?" The Cap'n looked up in a daze, his lips trembled as he tried to form words. "You tell Miranda Hank's all right-gettin' along fine. And tell her Hank jess sent his particular love to his Mama and-and to you, Rozie."

Rosamund flushed and choked back the sobs. "Oh, Uncle Lyman, do tell me if you think Hank is in terrible danger."

Danger? Tut, tut! 'Course he ain't. Jess havin' a little mite of a close shave. Don't you worry none, Rozie, Hank's comin' through with flyin' colors." "I hope so hard he is, Uncle Lyman. He's just the sweetest, dearest friend I've got in the world and I love him."

After she had gone out of the room, the Cap'n remarked: "Wish we could broadcast that little speech to Hank. Might

chirk him up some. A fellar can feel awful lonely on the sea when there's nothin' between him and Davey Jones' locker but a few thin strips of boards with holes in 'em." The Cap'n drummed impatiently on the table with his pipe. "Why ain't anythin' comin' in now, Ed?"

'Guess Key West is sendin' out on a different wave-length. We better hold on here where we know we can pick up the Omega."

The Cap'n staggered to his feet and wandered aimlessly about the room. He went in to see Mrs. Quiller for a few moments but was back shortly with a wan, forlorn expression.

"Anythin' more, Ed?"
"Nothing yet, Lyman."

Willie Brown had not opened his mouth once since the arrival of Mr. Billings. With eyes glued to the radio, he sat curled up in a chair, motionless, expressionless, taking in every detail of the tragedy but offering no comment or suggestions. Now, however, Willie had something on his mind.

"Uncle Lyman.”

"Yes, boy." The Cap'n did not lift his

head.

"Wasn't them blue-prints you was showing me last year the plans of Hank's ship?"

"Guess they was, Willie. I don't remember exactly. What about 'em."

Willie faltered. “Nothing. "Nothing. Nothing particular. Thought you might figure. out on 'em about where she's stove in."

The Cap'n grasped at the idea. It provided a means of relief from the strain of inactivity. He pulled out the lower drawer of his desk and pawed over a mass of papers until he came to a long roll of blue-prints that had a large "S. S. Omega" scrawled across the back. He spread the plans out on the desk and bent over them with Willie peering over his shoulder.

"Aft of the for'castle. Lemme see now. Port side." The Cap'n's finger wavered as he pointed to the spot. "About there I reckon is where she's stove. Ain't so bad there. Lots worse places she might ha' been hit. No, sir, ain't so bad there. Looks like-no, couldn't be, couldn't be."

"Looks like what, Uncle Lyman?"
"Looks like she might be hit in num-