"You got 'em?" some one cried. "You got 'em now?"
The operator continued to write; the second mate, reading, shook his head, "It's only the Richardson again."
"What is it?" Alan asked the officer.
"The Richardson heard four blasts of a steam whistle about an hour ago when she was opposite the Manitous. She answered with the whistle and turned toward the blasts. She couldn't find any ship." The officer's reply was interrupted by some of the others. "Then . . . that was a few minutes ago . . . they heard the four long again. . . . They'd tried to pick up the other ship with radio before. . . . Yes; we got that here. . . . Tried again and got no answer. . . . But they heard the blasts for half an hour. . . . They said they seemed to be almost beside the ship once. . . . But they didn't see anything. Then the blasts stopped . . . sudden, cut off short in the middle as though something happened. . . . She was blowing distress all right. . . . The Richardson's searching again now. . . . Yes, she's searching for boats."
"Any one else answered?" Alan asked.
"Shore stations on both sides."
"Do they know what ship it is?"
"No."
"What ship might be there now?"
The officer could not answer that. He had known where the Richardson must be; he knew of no other likely to be there at this season. The spray from the waves had frozen upon Alan; ice gleamed and glinted from the rail and from the deck. Alan's shoulders drew up in a spasm. The Richardson, they said, was
