off. There was a malicious little spit of the rebellious current, a spark of blue under the japanned standard, and the revolving brass wheel-wings came to a stop. Nothing but the sound of breathing filled the cabin.
"There!" McKinnon s voice erupted like one of his own coil-sparks through the silence. "Now I've got them!"
He jumped for his key, talking over his shoulder as he did so.
"It's the Guariqui operator," he explained, as he worked. "He's sending very weak; I can hardly get him. He says his power's giving out, and De Brigard's men are targeting at his aerials with carbines.
Then he flung himself into his chair, and caught up his form pad for transcription, with his receiver once more over his head. He wrote slowly, with intent eyes and wrinkled brow, word after word, sometimes going back and scratching out a phrase, sometimes puzzled by a lost dot or dash in the stuttering Morse, sometimes quickly "breaking" and asking the operator to repeat. His breath came shorter and quicker as he listened and wrote. Then he called frenziedly, and listened, and called again.
"They're dead!" he exclaimed, in disgust.
"Dead?" cried the woman, in white-lipped alarm.
