"Whew!" ejaculated Cub, wiping his brow and snapping over the aerial
switch. "I'm going to find out something about this."

A moment later his right hand was working the sending key with the speed
and skill of an expert, while blue flames leaped over the gap with
spiteful alphabetic spits. Hal and Bud watched him eagerly, and, with a
skill indicating long and studied practice, read the message their lanky
friend shot through the ether.

First he tuned for a few moments and then sent the call which had
accompanied the first Canadian's "SOS". Then he threw back the switch and
received a speedy answer. There seemed to be an almost spasmodic
eagerness in the manner in which he sent his acknowledgment.

"I heard your call for help," was Cub's next cast. "Who was that fellow
that snapped you up so sassy?"

"I don't know," answered the professed castaway. "I've been trying to get
help for more than a day, and he always breaks in and queers my call. He
makes everybody think I'm putting up a prank."

"Where is your island?" asked Cub.

"Somewhere in the Thousand Islands. That's the best I can locate it. I've
never been here before. Where are you?"

"At Oswego, New York."

"What's your call?"