to 't." He bent at the railing beside her and called down to Slengel. "We want t'hear that, too."
Slengel was busy before the dials, and the voice vanished.
"Trying to tune out static," he explained to the dark-haired young man.
"Turn it back," came the quiet, thrilling reply. "That's not static; he's speaking from the water edge; that's the roar of Lake Superior in his microphone."
The voice, above the roar, spoke again. "—You are on the southern shore of Lake Superior on a cliff looking north over the lake," spoke the strange, invisible voice in a tone, independent of its transmission and intensification, which carried the leap of the speaker's heart with it and bore his excitement. "A gale has been blowing for three days, one of the most violent storms known to this section. There has been no let up in the weather; the wind is from the northwest so this is a lee shore. The water for a mile is greenish-white under the moon. You look over white, wild water to the mast of the Gideon Gant, which sank off this point on the first day of the storm.
"Further out you see the lights of three steamers—the Loring, which tried a rescue, and the Donagon, which later tried and has been standing by, with the Loring, ever since. The third steamer standing by is the Sarrant which came up to-day. The ship that is making the try is east of these and standing much farther in. The Donagon plays its searchlights on her and on the water before her to aid her; the Loring tries to keep its searchlight on the mast. The ships are tossing so that the searchlight beams
