clamped to his ears in order to hear the music from the big broadcasting stations; he felt that it was mighty unsatisfactory for only one person to hear the sounds at one time and he soon found that despite every effort he was continually

interrupted by calls and messages from near-by amateur stations.

Being of a naturally inventive and mechanical mind and remembering his father’s advice to try to improve matters, he spent all his spare time studying the radio magazines, haunting the stores where radio supplies and instruments were sold and arguing about and discussing various devices and sets with his boy friends. Hardly a day passed that he did not arrive at his home carrying some mysterious package or bundle. Accompanied by his chum Frank, from the time school was over until late in the evening he kept himself secluded in his den while faint sounds of hammering or of animated conversation might have been heard within.

“What’s all the mystery, Son?” his father had asked on one occasion. “Going to spring some big invention on an unsuspecting world?”

Tom laughed. “Not quite, Dad,” he replied, “but I’m going to give you and mother a surprise pretty soon.”

When at last all was ready and his parents were invited to Tom’s holy of holies they were indeed

surprised. Upon a small table were various instruments and devices and a seeming tangle of wires, while, tucked away on a bookshelf, was the little crystal set which had so recently been Tom’s pride and joy.

And still greater was their surprise when, after busying himself over the instruments, the faint sounds of music filled the room, coming mysteriously from the apparent odds and ends upon the table.

“It’s all homemade,” Tom had explained proudly. “But it works. Frank and I rigged it up just as an experiment. Now I’m going to reassemble it and put it in a case and have a regular set.”

“Wait a minute, Tom,” his father had interrupted. “You’ll have to explain a bit. If that lot of stuff can give so much better results than the set you bought, why didn’t you make it in the first place, and what’s the difference anyway?”

“Well, you see, Dad,” Tom tried to explain, “I had to start at the bottom as you said and a crystal set’s the bottom. This is a vacuum tube set. Those things like little electric lights are the tubes

and they’re the heart of the whole thing, and I’ve a one-step amplifier and that has to have another tube. I didn’t have enough pocket money to buy everything so Frank lent me some of his. You see it’s this way——”

“Never mind about the technicalities,” laughed his father. “As I said before, go to it. Get what you need and keep busy. It’s a fine thing for you boys. Now turn her on again, or whatever you call it, and let’s hear some more music.”

From that time, Tom’s progress was rapid although, as his father had jokingly remarked, the boy’s chief occupation appeared to be building sets one day only to tear them down and reconstruct them the next.

Tom’s room had assumed the appearance of an electrical supply shop. Tools, wire, sheet brass, bakelite, hard rubber knobs, odds and ends of metal, coils and countless other things had taken the places of books, skates, baseball bats and papers, and the fiction magazines had given way to radio periodicals, blue prints and diagrams. Mrs. Pauling was in despair and complained to her husband that Tom was making a dreadful mess

of his room and expressed fears that he might get hurt fooling with electricity.

“Don’t you fret over that,” her husband had advised. “Tom and his friends are having the time of their lives. As long as they are learning something of value, what does it matter if they do keep his room in a mess? Besides, it’s clean dirt you know—and it’s orderly disorder if you know what I mean. They’re exploring a new world and haven’t time to look after such trifles as having a place for everything and everything in its place. That will come later. Just now they are fired with the zeal and enthusiasm of great inventors and scientists. We mustn’t interfere with them—such feelings come to human beings but once in a lifetime. I consider this radio craze the best thing for boys that ever occurred. It gives them an interest, it’s educational, it keeps them off the street and occupies their brains and hands at the same time. Do you know, if I didn’t have my time so fully occupied, I believe I’d get bitten by the bug myself. Besides, they may really discover something worth while. I was talking to Henderson of our staff to-day—he had charge of

our radio work during the war—and he tells me some of the best inventions in radio have been made by amateurs—quite by accident too. I expect Tom knows that and that’s what makes the kids so keen on the subject—it’s a wonderful thought to feel you may stumble on some little thing that will revolutionize a great science at any moment.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Fred,” agreed Tom’s mother resignedly. “But I do wish it were possible to have boys amuse themselves without tracking shavings all over the halls and burning holes in their clothes and having grimy fingers.”

But Tom’s mother need not have worried. Gradually order came out of chaos. As the boys progressed, they found that the accumulation of odds and ends and the disorder interfered with their work; many experimental instruments and devices had been discarded and were now tossed into a junk box in the closet; a neat work table with the tools handily arranged had been rigged up and Tom and Frank had developed a well-equipped and orderly little workshop with the completed instruments on an improvised bench under the window.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Pauling had noticed the gradual improvement, as from time to time they had been summoned by Tom to witness demonstrations of the latest products of the boys’ brains and hands, and both parents congratulated the boys on their handiwork and the strides they had made. So, on the night when Tom had assured his father that his latest set was a “peacherino,” the two grownups entered a room which, as Mr. Pauling expressed it, reminded him of a wireless on a ship.

And then, after Tom with the glowing eyes and flushed face of an inventor and the pride of a showman, had exhibited his latest achievement and had explained its mysteries in terms which were utterly unintelligible to his parents, they sat spellbound as the strains of a military band fairly filled the room.

“Fine!” declared Mr. Pauling when the concert ended. “You have got a ‘peacherino’ as you call it.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” declared Tom deprecatingly. “I can get Pittsburgh and I can get spark messages from Cuba and Canada, and last night I

picked up a message from Balboa. I’ll hear England and France before I’m satisfied.”

“Bully!” exclaimed his father. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’m off to Cuba and the Bahamas, Monday, you know. I’ll radio from the ship on the way down and after I get there you can see if you can pick up my messages direct and can talk back.”

“Oh, I can’t do that, yet,” declared Tom. “I haven’t a sending set. You have to get a license for that, but I’m going to get at it right away. It will be fine to be able to hear you. I’ll bet I can get your messages from Cuba and Nassau. Say, it will be almost like hearing you talk.”

“How shall I address them?” chuckled his father. “Tom Pauling, The Air?”

“Gee! I hadn’t thought of that,” ejaculated Tom. “I haven’t any call letters—only sending stations have them—I’ve got it! When you send a message, just address it as if it were a regular message and then I’ll know it’s for me. And send them the same time every time—then I’ll be sure to be here and waiting to get them.”

“Righto,” agreed