First he tuned for a few moments and then sent the call which had accompanied the first Canadian’s “Sos”. Then he threw back the switch and received a speedy answer. There seemed to be an almost spasmodic eagerness in the manner in which he sent his acknowledgment.
“I heard your call for help,” was Cub’s next cast. “Who was that fellow that snapped you up so sassy?”
“I don’t know,” answered the professed castaway. “I’ve been trying to get help for more than a day, and he always breaks in and queers my call. He makes everybody think I’m putting up a prank.”
“Where is your island?” asked Cub.
“Somewhere in the Thousand Islands. That’s the best I can locate it. I’ve never been here before. Where are you?”
“At Oswego, New York.”
“What’s your call?”
“A V L.”
“Can you do anything for me?”
“I don’t know what I can do unless I try to interest somebody near you by wireless. I’ll send out a broadcast in any manner you may suggest. But you can do that just as well as I.”
“I have done it over and over, but it does not do any good,” said “Crusoe”. “That evil genius of mine always manages to queer me. Finally I got so desperate that I sent out an Sos.”
“And committed a radio crime,” broke in the alleged evil genius. “Don’t you know the rules governing that distress signal?”
“There he is again,” “Crusoe” dot-and-dashed.
“Who are you?” demanded Cub.
“I am Canadian amateur,” was the reply. “That fellow who sent the distress signal is a Canadian college student trying to put over a college prank. I am on his trail to prevent him. We have a wager up; if he induces anybody to go to his rescue, I lose.”
“That is not true,” interposed the sender of the Sos.
“What is your call?” Cub inquired.
“Yes, give it to him, and tell him what college I am from,” proposed the “fellow on the island”.
“One of the conditions of our wager is that I must not reveal my identity,” returned the anonymous amateur. “He’s bound by like terms. He does not dare give you his name and address.”
“That fellow is insane or a villain,” declared “Crusoe”. “I do not know who he is, but if I starve to death, he’ll be a wanton murderer. My name is Raymond Flood. I am not a college student. I am a high school student at Kingston.”
“Is his name Raymond Flood?” was Cub’s next query intended for the anonymous amateur.
“No,” was the latter’s reply.
“What is it?”
“Under terms of our wager, I must not reveal his name and he must not reveal mine.”
“Whew!” exclaimed Cub, addressing his two friends, who removed the phones from their ears, the better to hear him. “Can you beat that?”
“We sure have hit a sensation of some sort,” Hal declared. “What’ll we do?”
“I don’t know what under the sun to do,” Cub replied. “I don’t like to pass him up, for fear he may be telling the truth; and yet, I don’t like to be the victim of a joke.”