“Have you any plan, then?” asked Mr. Damon.  “Bless my shoe laces! there are enough problems to solve on this earthquake island.”

“I thought of this,” said Tom.  “I’ll send out our call for help from nine to ten in the morning.  Then I’ll wait, and send out another call from two to three in the afternoon.  Around seven in the evening I’ll try again, and then about ten o’clock at night, before going to bed.”

“That ought to be sufficient,” agreed Mr. Fenwick.  “Certainly we must save our gasolene, for there is no telling how long we may have to stay here, and call for help.”

“It won’t be long if that scientist Parker has his way,” spoke Mr. Damon, grimly.  “Bless my hat band, but he’s a most uncomfortable man to have around; always predicting that the island is going to sink!  I hope we are rescued before that happens.”

“I guess we all do,” remarked Mr. Fenwick.  “But, Tom, here is another matter.  Have you thought about getting an answer from the unknown—­from some ship or wireless station, that may reply to your calls?  How can you tell when that will come in?”

“I can’t.”

“Then won’t you or some of us, have to be listening all the while?”

“No, for I think an answer will come only directly after I have sent cut a call, and it has been picked up by some operator.  Still there is a possibility that some operator might receive my message, and report to his chief, or some one in authority over him, before replying.  In that time I might go away.  But to guard against that I will sleep with the telephone receiver clamped to my ear.  Then I can hear the answer come over the wires, and can jump up and reply.”

“Do you mean you will sleep here?” asked Mr. Damon, indicating the shack where the wireless apparatus was contained.

“Yes,” answered Tom, simply.

“Can’t we take turns listening for the answer?” inquired Mr. Fenwick, “and so relieve you?”

“I’m afraid not, unless you understand the Morse code,” replied Tom.  “You see there may be many clicks, which result from wireless messages flying back and forth in space, and my receiver will pick them up.  But they will mean nothing.  Only the answer to our call for help will be of any service to us.”

“Do you mean to say that you can catch messages flying back and forth between stations now?” asked Mr. Fenwick.

“Yes,” replied the young inventor, with a smile.  “Here, listen for yourself,” and he passed the head-instrument over to the WHIZZER’s former owner.  The latter listened a moment.

“All I can hear are some faint clicks,” he said.

“But they are a message,” spoke Tom.  “Wait, I’ll translate,” and he out the receiver to his ear. “’Steamship “Falcon” Reports A slight fire in her forward compartment,’” said Tom, slowly. “’It is under control, and we will proceed.’”