hands pointed to 7:45 and the boys fairly thrilled with excitement. Would they hear the message from the speeding ship? Would they pick up that one message that they were expecting? Would they, in a moment more, be listening to the dots and dashes that represented Mr. Pauling’s words? Neither boy was yet expert at reading Morse if sent rapidly, but the wireless man aboard the Havana had laughingly agreed to send Mr. Pauling’s messages slowly and the boys were not worried on that score.

Suddenly, to Tom’s ears, came a sharp buzz—faint and blurred, and with trembling fingers he tuned his set, adjusted the variable condenser and as the short, staccato sounds grew sharp, loud and clear he knew that the long-hoped-for message was coming to his ears. “Dah, dah dah dah, dah dah, dee dah dah dee, dee dah, dee dee dah, dee dah

dee dee, dee dee, dah dee, dah dah dee,” came the dots and dashes, sent slowly as if by an amateur and mentally Tom translated them. Yes, there was no doubt of it, TOM PAULING were the words the dots and dashes spelled and Tom’s heart beat a trifle faster and his face flushed with excitement as he heard his own name coming out of space and realized that, across a hundred miles and more of tossing sea, his father was talking to him and steadily he jotted down the letters as they buzzed in dots and dashes through the air from the distant ship.

“Hurrah!” he fairly yelled, as with the final “dee dah dee dah dee” the operator signified that the message was finished. “Hurrah! I got it. See, here ’tis, Mother!”

Frank also had received the message on his set and the two compared the letters they had written down.

“Of course we made some mistakes,” explained Tom as his mother puzzled over the unpunctuated, apparently meaningless letters. “See,” he continued, “you have to separate the letters into words and sentences and this one should be an “N” instead

of an “A” and I guess this is a “D” instead of a “B,” Frank’s got it that way. One’s a dash and three dots and the other’s a dash and two dots.”

As he spoke, Tom was busily copying the letters and forming words and presently showed his mother the finished message. “That’s it,” he announced proudly. “Just think of Dad talking to us—and he’ll do it every night all the way down and after he gets there. Gosh! It’s funny to think we can hear from him that way. Say, isn’t radio great?”

“But I thought you could hear him talking,” said his mother in rather disappointed tones. “He could send messages that way by the regular radio companies or by cable.”

“Of course he could,” agreed Tom somewhat disturbed because his mother was not more enthusiastic over his achievement. “But you see the fun is in getting it ourselves this way. It wouldn’t be any sport to have the messages brought in an envelope like ordinary telegrams. Gee! I just wish we could hear him talk over the phones. Some of the ships have talked with the shore farther

away than he is, but I guess the Havana’s radio isn’t up-to-date.”

“I think it’s fine and splendid of you boys to be able to do this,” declared his mother. “What I meant was, that I had expected to hear your father’s voice and I really was disappointed when I found it was so different.”

“Well, I’m going to fix a set to talk back to him,” said Tom. “And just as soon as I get the sending set done we’ll get to work and make a better receiving set, won’t we, Frank?”

“You bet!” agreed Frank. “Perhaps by the time your father is on the way back we can really talk to him.”

“Now let’s have some music,” suggested Tom, and for the next hour they all listened to the broadcasting station’s program as the loud speaker filled the room with the sounds of music, singing, speeches and news.

For the next three nights the two boys picked up Mr. Pauling’s messages regularly and were as proud as peacocks when they managed to get the first message from Havana telling of his safe arrival in Cuba. And by their enthusiastic studies

and the practice they gained by deciphering the messages, the boys were successful in passing the required examination and proudly exhibited their license to maintain and operate a sending station.

It was a red letter day in their lives when they at last had the transmitting set in working order and flashed a message into the night, to have it promptly answered by an unknown boy in Garden City. Each night, too, they sent out messages directed to their father in the vain hope that, by some chance or by the same mysterious combination of conditions which had wafted other messages to vast distances beyond the range of the instruments, their words might be picked up in Havana or Nassau; but no reply came and at last they gave up in despair.

Then, their sending set being no longer a novelty, the boys set diligently to work on other matters and worked early and late.

“What on earth is that?” asked Tom’s mother, when finally the new idea had assumed concrete form and she was invited to witness a demonstration. “It looks like some sort of a huge birdcage,” she continued as she seated herself and

glanced at the wooden framework wound with wire that stood on a small table.

“Well, I don’t suppose you can understand,” replied Tom, with the superior air of one who is master of an art beyond ordinary comprehension, “but I’ll try to explain. That’s a loop aërial.”

“But I thought the aërial was that wire clothesline-like affair on the roof,” objected Mrs. Pauling. “You see,” she laughed, “I am beginning to learn a little.”

Tom grinned, “Oh, yes, that’s an aërial, too,” he replied. “But this is another kind. With this we don’t need any ground or lead-ins or lightning switches. And it’s directional too. That is,” he hastened to explain, “by turning it one way or another we can pick up signals from certain directions and not from others. Some people call them compass aërials and they’re used on ships for locating other vessels or for finding their way. And besides, they cut out a lot of static.”

“Now please, Tom, what is all this you’re talking about? What is static?”

“Well that’s mighty hard to explain,” said Tom, scratching his head reflectively. “It’s a sort of

electricity in the air—lots of it around when there are thunderstorms and lightning.”

“Lightning!” exclaimed his mother. “Do be careful, fooling with all these things, Tom. I’m always afraid you’ll get a fearful shock or something.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Tom. “Static doesn’t hurt any one and lightning won’t do any harm. An aërial is just like a lightning-rod and if it’s struck the lightning is just carried down to the ground harmlessly; but this loop aërial’s different. Now let’s hear how it works.”

Adjusting the instruments and attaching the loud-speaker, Tom slowly turned the cagelike affair about and suddenly, as it faced the west, the sounds of music burst out from the horn.

“There ’tis!” cried Tom, exultantly. “That’s Newark. Now, see here.” As he spoke, he swung the loop aërial to one side, and instantly, the music died out. “Now, listen carefully,” he continued and turned the loop slowly around until, somewhat fainter, the sounds of a human voice came from the loud-speaker. “That’s Pittsburgh,” declared Tom. “Now you see how it

works. If it’s turned towards Newark we get Newark and if towards Pittsburgh we get that.”

“Yes, it’s all very interesting,” admitted his mother. “But what advantage is it? You used to hear both Newark and Pittsburgh with the aërial on the roof.”

“Oh, it’s no advantage for ordinary work,” replied Tom. “But it’s a fine thing in some ways. Now, for