The drowsy calm of a balmy afternoon at the Motor Rangers’ wireless camp on Goat Island was abruptly shattered by a raucous, insistent clangor from the alarm-bell of the wireless outfit. Nat Trevor, Joe Hartley and Ding-dong Bell, who had been pretending to read but were in reality dozing on the porch of a small portable wood and canvas house, galvanized into the full tide of life and activity usually theirs. “Something doing at last!” cried Nat. “It began to look as if there wouldn’t be much for us on the island but a fine vacation, lots of sea-breeze and coats of tan like old russet shoes.”…
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