whined and squealed like an animal in pain as Ding-dong’s trembling fingers alternately depressed and released the “brass.”

“Goat Island! Goat Island! Goat Island!” he repeated monotonously, and then switched the current from the sending to the receiving instruments.

Against his ears came a tiny pattering so faint as to be hardly distinguishable. Yet the boy knew that the instruments must be “in tune,” or nearly so, with whatever station was sending wireless waves through space, else the “alarm” would not have been sprung.

He adjusted his instruments to take a longer “wave” than he had been using. Instantly the breaking of the “wireless surf” against the antennæ above the receiving shed became plainer.

“This is the steamer Iroquois, San Francisco, to Central American ports,” was what Ding-dong’s pencil rapidly transcribed on the pad, while the others leaned breathlessly over his shoulder and watched the flying lead. “A passenger is dangerously hurt. We need assistance at once.”

The young operator thrilled. The first message that had come to the island was an urgent one.

“Where are you?” he flashed back.

“Thirty miles off the coast. Who are you?” came back the reply.

“Thirty miles off where?” whanged out Ding-dong’s key, while he grumbled at the indefiniteness of the operator on the steamer.

“Off Santa Barbara. Who are you and can you send out a boat to take our injured passenger ashore? Hospital attention is necessary.”

“Wait a minute,” spelled out the young Motor Ranger’s key.

He turned to the others.

“You see what I’ve got,” he said indicating the pad and speaking perfectly plainly in his excitement; “what are we going to do about it?”

The lads exchanged glances. It was evident as their eyes met what was in each one’s mind. The Nomad lay snugly anchored in a cove on the shoreward side of the island. A run of thirty miles out to sea was nothing for the speedy, sturdy gasolene craft, and the call that had come winging through the air from the steamer was an appeal for aid that none of them felt like refusing to heed. It was clear that the case was urgent. A life, even, might be at stake. Each lad felt that a responsibility had been suddenly laid at their door that they could not afford to shirk.

“Well?” queried Ding-dong.

“Well?” reiterated Joe Hartley as they turned by common consent to Nat Trevor, the accepted leader of the Motor Rangers at all times.

“You’d better tell the man on that ship that we’ll be alongside within two hours,” said Nat quietly; and that was all; Ding-dong, without comment, swung around to his key again. Like Joe, he had known what Nat’s decision would be almost before he gave it. Nat was not the lad to turn down an appeal like the one sent out from the Iroquois. The sea was smooth, the weather fair, but even had it been blowing half a gale it is doubtful if Nat would have hesitated a jiffy under the circumstances to perform what he adjudged to be a duty.

Ding-dong speedily raised the Iroquois.

“We’ll take your injured man ashore,” he flashed out. “Lay to where you are and we’ll pick you up without trouble. Expect us in about two hours.”

“Bully for you, Goat Island,” came the rejoinder, which Ding-dong hardly waited to hear before he disconnected his instruments and “grounded” them.