A CRY IN THE AIR


"Well, Bob, here we are again. And no word from Jack yet."

"That's right, Frank. But the weather has been bad for sending so
great a distance for days. When these spring storms come to an end the
static will lift and well stand a better chance to hear from him."

"Righto, Bob. Then, too, the Hamptons may not have finished their
station on time."

The other shook his head. "No, Jack wrote us they would have
everything installed by the 15th and that we should be on the lookout
for his voice. And when he says he'll do a thing, he generally does
it. It must be the weather. Let's step out again and have a look."

Taking off their headpieces, the two boys opened the door of the
private radiophone station where the above conversation took place and
stepped out to a little platform. It was a mild day late in June, and
the sandy Long Island plain, broken only by a few trees, with the
ocean in the distance, lay smiling before them. A succession of
electrical storms which for days had swept the countryside in rapid
succession apparently had come to an end. The clouds were lifting, and
there was more than a promise of early sunlight to brighten the
Saturday holiday.

The boys looked hopefully at each other.