“The rest of the food?”

“Yes, the supply you took from the wrecked airship.  We have used up nearly all that was piled in the improvised kitchen, and we’ll have to draw on the reserve supply.”

“The reserve,” murmured Tom.

“Yes, there is only enough in the shack where Mrs. Anderson and I do the cooking, to last for about two days.  Isn’t there any more?”

Tom did not answer.  He saw the drift of the questioning.  Their food was nearly gone, yet the castaways from the resolute thought there was still plenty.  As a matter of fact there was not another can, except those in the kitchen shack.

“Get out wherever there is left some time to-day, if you will, Mr. Swift,” went on Mrs. Nestor, as she turned away, “and Mrs. Anderson and I will see if we can fix up some new dishes for you men-folks.”

“Oh—­all right,” answered Tom, weakly.

His hand dropped from the key of the instrument.  He sat staring into space.  Food enough for but two days more, with earthquakes likely to happen at any moment, and no reply yet to his appeals for aid!  Truly the situation was desperate.  Tom shook his head.  It was the first time he had felt like giving up.

CHAPTER XXIII

A REPLY IN THE DARK

The young inventor looked out of the wireless shack.  Down on the beach he saw the little band of castaways.  They were gathered in a group about Mr. Jenks, who seemed to be talking earnestly to them.  The two ladies were over near the small building that served as a kitchen.

“More food supplies needed, eh?” mused Tom.  “Well, I don’t know where any more is to come from.  We’ve stripped the whizzer bare.”  He glanced toward what remained of the airship.  “I guess we’ll have to go on short rations, until help comes,” and, wondering what the group of men could be talking about, Tom resumed his clicking out of his wireless message.

He continued to send it into space for several minutes after ten o’clock, the hour at which he usually stopped for the morning, for he thought there might be a possible chance that the electrical impulses would be picked up by some vessel far out at sea, or by some station operator who could send help.

But there came no answering clicks to the “E.  I.” station—­to Earthquake Island—­and, after a little longer working of the key, Tom shut down the dynamo, and joined the group on the beach.

“I tell you it’s our only chance,” Mr. Jenks was saying.  “I must get off this island, and that’s the only way we can do it.  I have large interests at stake.  If we wait for a reply to this wireless message we may all be killed, though I appreciate that Mr. Swift is doing his best to aid us.  But it is hopeless!”

“What do you think about it, Tom?” asked Mr. Damon, turning to the young inventor.

“Think about what?”