THROUGH THE SMOKE
A Tale of the Wireless
BY F. LOVELL COOMBS
“I am a reporter of the “Daily Press.” explained the caller. “You are the boy who owns this wireless plant, are you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Scott, wondering.
“And you can do real work with it? Send and receive messages?”
“Yes, sir; though not so very fast, yet.”
“Can you work as far as River Falls?”
“I talk nearly every evening with a boy up there— Jack Snider, son of the school principal. I was just going to call him up, to ask about the forest fire. There was a rumor down-town that it was spreading.”
“It is. That is just what brought me!" said the reporter. “Both the telegraph- and telephone-wires were interrupted half an hour ago. I came up to see if you could get us any news by wireless. If you can, we will make it worth your while.”
Promptly, Scott threw open the door, revealing a small room in the end of the shed. “I ‘ll try,” he said. “Come in. I'm not sure I can get Jack before six o‘clock—sometimes he is busy—but I'll try.”
“You have a businesslike little outfit,” observed the reporter, taking in the details of the room—the instruments grouped on the table, the neatly made switchboard above, a small incandescent lamp, and a framed “Wireless Code” on the wall. “I understand you made everything yourself?”
“I did n't make this head-’phone,” Scott replied, placing the receiver over his head, and adjusting the ear-pieces snugly; “nor the telegraph-key. The rest I made, though,” and he indicated the spiral “helix” and spark-coil for sending, and the drum-like tuner, condenser, and detector, for catching the air-sent messages.
Throwing a switch on the switchboard, the young operator pressed the key below. From the spark-coil burst a crackling sputter that caused the reporter to start back. Then, keenly interested, he watched the dancing electric flame that leaped between the points of the spark-gap as Scott rapidly worked the key, repeating the letters:
“J S.J S, J S. S D Z-J S. J S. S D Z.”
Several times Scott repeated the call, then snapping the switch back, sat silent, listening. Drawing another chair to the table, the reporter dropped down beside him, watching the lad’s face expectantly.
“No answer?” he asked presently.
Scott shook his head. A moment after, his face lighted. Then it clouded in a frown. “It ’s that idiot Cass Johnson, over on the hill.” he said “He has a fine, portable outfit that his uncle gave him, and is too lazy to learn to read—that is the hardest part. you know—but every once in a while, he breaks in trying to send, and kills Jack Snider’s sending. Their instruments are tuned to the same pitch.
“I can scarcely ever tune him out.” Scott added, moving the tuning-slider farther up the rod. “There, I don’t hear him now. But I could n’t hear Jack either, if he answered.”
The reporter started to his feet. “They have a ‘phone, have n't they?” he asked.
“Yes—238 Hill.”
“I ‘ll run down to the corner store and ‘phone him to get off the air—or out of the air—whatever the proper expression is.”
Within a few moments of the reporter's appearance, footsteps again sounded about the house. Scott, breaking the sending circuit after a further spell of calling, glanced over his shouder. “You ’re not back already—” he began, and broke off with an exclamation on recognizing, not the reporter, but the local station-agent. “Hello, Mr. Baker! Come in!”
“Are you busy, Scott?” the station-master asked.
“I’m trying to raise Jack Snider, at the Falls. Your wires have n't failed too, have they?”
"Yes, and we are holding up all trains until we can learn something. I ran over to see if you could n’t find out something for us ‘through the air.’”
“I ll do all I can for you, certainly,” said Scott, readily. “I have been trying to get some news422
