The Radio Boys at Mountain Pass: or, The Midnight Call for Assistance

CHAPTER VIII – A CLOSE SHAVE

Mrs. Layton uttered a scream, and the others looked at each other a second with blank faces. Then they jumped out and surrounded the unfortunate driver, who was gazing at his injured arm in a dazed fashion. Mr. Layton made a quick examination, and pronounced that the wrist was badly sprained. Fortunately, they had a complete medical outfit in one of the cars, including splints, and Mr. Layton contrived to bind up the injured wrist after a fashion, and then suspended the arm in a sling.

“But who’s going to drive the car?” asked the uninjured chauffeur, after this operation had been completed. “If none of you people knows how to drive, we’re in a pretty bad fix.”

“I’ll drive,” volunteered Bob. “You lead the way, and I guess I’ll manage to keep near you.”

“Are you sure you can do it, Bob?” questioned his father, anxiously. He had great faith in his son’s ability, and liked to have the lad take a certain amount of responsibility.

“Sure, Dad. Watch and see,” was the quick answer.

“I don’t know about this,” said the chauffeur, with the professional’s distrust of the amateur. “We could all pack in one car in a pinch, you know, and leave the other here.”

“But that would so overload one car that we’d have very little chance of getting there without a breakdown,” argued Bob. “Don’t worry about my driving. I’ll manage somehow.”

“I’ll bet you will,” said Joe. “You’ll have to move lively to keep from being run over,” he told the driver.

“Quit your kiddin’,” said the chauffeur, unbelievingly. “We’ll have to hit the high spots from now on, and it ain’t goin’ to be an easy job holdin’ those boilers on the road.”

Somewhat against his mother’s will, Bob cranked the motor of the car he was to drive, but took care to see that the spark was fully retarded, in consequence of which he started the engine without any trouble. The injured driver occupied the other half of the driver’s seat, so as to give Bob pointers in handling the car if they were needed.

But he soon found that Bob required very little of his advice. It was some time since he had driven a car, and at first he was a little slow at gear shifting, but soon got the “feel” of that particular car and from then on shifted with the ease and deft certainty of an expert. As a matter of fact, Bob possessed the knack of handling machinery, without which no one can really claim to be a good driver.

The injured driver was not long in recognizing this. Shortly after they had reached the main road and were once more headed for their destination, they encountered a steep grade, something over a mile in length. Both cars were going at a fair speed when they felt the first tug of gravity, but so sharp was the grade that they lost way rapidly, and it became necessary to shift into a lower speed. Bob did not wait until they had slowed down too much. With a quick shove he disengaged the clutch, shifted into neutral, and then dropped the clutch into the engagement, at the same time accelerating the engine momentarily. This causes the idle gears on the jack-shaft to revolve, after which it is comparatively easy to mesh the intermediate gear combination. Bob had no difficulty in doing this, and with his gears properly engaged, he let in the clutch again and stepped on the accelerator. The car surged forward, ploughing through the snow and skidding from side to side as it fought its way up the steep gradient.

In a few moments they caught up with the leading car, which was in difficulties. Its driver had waited too long before attempting to shift, and the car had slowed down so much by the time he got into intermediate that it would not pick up even in that speed, and he was forced to shift into low.

“I’ll bet that young feller that’s driving Jim’s car is stalled somewhere at the bottom of this hill,” he thought. “Hope I don’t have to wait too long for him after I reach the top. This road is no place for an amateur to drive, anyway. I – ”

Honk! Honk! The raucous note of Bob’s horn broke in upon his thoughts, and he glanced, startled, through the rear windows, to see the other car looming through the drifting storm.

Too late he tried frantically to speed up and avoid the humiliation of being passed by one whom he condescendingly termed an amateur. Resistless as fate the pursuing car drew abreast, and then went on past in a cloud of fine snow kicked up by the spinning rear wheels. He muttered morosely to himself as he caught a glimpse of grinning faces through the dim windows of the storm curtains, but was conscious of a feeling of admiration, too, for the daring young driver.

“Say, son, I’ve got to hand it to you!” exclaimed Jim, the injured chauffeur. “You know how to handle a car with the best of ’em.”

“Oh, I didn’t care so much about passing him, but I didn’t want to slow down,” explained Bob, never for an instant taking his eyes from the road. “It’s against my principles to put on brakes when I’m going up a hill.”

“I figure the same way myself,” admitted the other. “Now that we’re ahead, we might as well stay ahead. I’ll tell you which way to turn, an’ I guess between us we’ll get through all right.”

But many miles still lay between them and their destination, and the storm showed no sign of abating. Softly, silently, but implacably the white flakes continued to pile up that clinging carpet over the road until driving became more a matter of guesswork and instinct than anything else. For a time the injured chauffeur gave Bob directions and advice, but at length he came to the conclusion that this boy behind the wheel was very capable of doing the right thing in the right place, and he sat silent, gripping the seat and pressing on imaginary pedals when they got in tight places.

They were making good progress, considering the adverse conditions, and were within perhaps ten miles of their destination when suddenly, through the whirling snow, Bob glimpsed another car swinging into the main road not fifteen feet from him. Both cars were going at a fast speed, but the drivers caught sight of each other at almost the same instant, and both jammed on their brakes. The cars swayed and skidded, and the occupants of both started from their seats, believing a collision inevitable. Nothing could have averted this had not Bob, quick as lightning, wrenched his wheel around, bringing his car into a course almost parallel with the other. For a few brief seconds the outcome lay in the hand of fate. When the two cars finally came to a jarring halt, they were side by side, with not six inches between their running boards.

The door of the other car, which was a sedan, burst open, and a small, red-faced and white-haired man leaped out and shook a belligerent fist at Bob.

“What do you mean by driving that car at such a rate of speed?” he shrilled. “You were breaking every speed law there is, young man, and I’ll make you sorry for it, or my name isn’t Gilbert Salper.”

“But your car was going faster than ours, and there isn’t any damage done, anyway,” Bob pointed out, as he wriggled from behind the wheel and descended to the road.

“No damage done?” echoed the other, waving his hands excitedly. “You almost scared my wife and daughters into fits, and yet you have the nerve to stand there and tell me there is no damage done. What do you mean by it?”

Before Bob could make an indignant reply, a lady wrapped in costly furs stepped from the sedan and laid a soothing hand on the irate old gentleman’s shoulder.

“I’m sure it wasn’t the young man’s fault, Gilbert,” she said, in a pleasant voice. “Indeed, I think it was his quick action that prevented a collision. Jules was at fault in coming on to the main road without slowing down or blowing his horn.”

“They were both going too fast, I say!” insisted her husband. “But I suppose we ought to be thankful that we are still alive, after undertaking such a fool trip. Next time we’ll do what I want and stay at home.”

The gentleman fumed and fussed a little longer, but at length his wife and daughters succeeded in enticing him back into his car. The latter were both unusually pretty girls, and as they coaxed their father back into good humor, Joe, who was in the car driven by Bob, whispered that he hoped they were also bound for the Mountain Rest Hotel.

Mr. Salper was a wealthy Wall Street broker, whose pocketbook was much longer than his temper. Although irascible and prone to “fly off the handle” at the slightest provocation, he was at bottom a kindly man, and one who would do anything for those he cared for. Like many others, his health had suffered in the process of money making, and his physician had ordered him to give up business for a month or two and rest.

The broker owned a house not far from the big hotel at Mountain Pass, and the family frequently came to the place, both in the winter and the summer. They were well known at the hotel itself for they often ran over to take meals there and to visit with some of the patrons.

By the time his daughters had succeeded in calming the broker’s excitement, the second car of the Layton party came up, and it was decided that the three cars should keep close together for the rest of the journey, in order to render mutual aid if it should be needed. The snow had attained a depth of six or eight inches by this time, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that they even managed to start again. But finally they got straightened out and resumed their bucking of the hills and snow.

CHAPTER IX – BUCKING THE DRIFTS

It was heartbreaking work, for from that point on the road ascended steadily toward the top of the mountain, with hardly a level spot on it. A mile ahead lay the Pass, a narrow gorge in which the snow had drifted so deep as to make it almost impassable.

The car that Bob was driving was in the lead, and as they neared this dangerous place the disabled chauffeur gave him a word of advice.

“Open ’er wide, son,” he counseled. “We’ll have to buck drifts maybe two feet deep or more, and if we once have to stop, it means we’ll stay there until somebody comes and digs us out. Give ’er all she’ll take, and hold her on the road if you can.”

Bob nodded, and opened the throttle little by little, while the chauffeur held his foot on the muffler cut-out pedal, in order to relieve the engine of all back pressure. Just before they reached the Pass, by some freak of the wind the road had been swept clear of snow for several hundred feet, and this gave the car an opportunity to gather speed.

Faster and faster it flew, until the speedometer needle registered fifty miles an hour. Then through the driving snow the entrance to the Pass loomed ahead, and the chauffeur gave an exclamation.

Before them was a snowdrift that looked almost as high as their car, stretching solidly across the road and leaving Bob not the shadow of a chance to dodge. He set his teeth, opened the throttle to the limit, and gripped the wheel with wrists braced strong as steel bars.

The heavy car hurtled into the drift with the force of a projectile shot from a big gun, throwing clouds of snow in every direction as it bored resistlessly through. The car skidded and twisted in every direction, and it was a supreme test of Bob’s strength and skill to keep the powerful machine on its course. Big rocks lined the road, and more than once they shaved past these with only inches to spare.

Resistless with its initial momentum, the big car was nevertheless gradually losing speed as it penetrated further into the drift and the passive but deadly resistance of the snow began more and more to make itself felt. The engine began to labor, and Bob was on the point of shifting speeds, when suddenly the car broke through the farther side of the drift, seemed to shake the clinging flakes from it, and began to pick up speed again.

Those composing the little party never forgot the gruelling battle against odds that followed. The blustering wind had piled the snow in great drifts in some places, and in others had swept the road so clean that the frozen brown earth was visible for some distance.

On these stretches they would pick up speed, and then charge into the drifts and repeat the former battle. Over and over they did this, Bob driving like a master, with steely blue eyes fastened grimly on the road ahead, jaws set, and a face that looked ten years older than it really was. Those in the car spoke words of encouragement from time to time, but he was too busy and concentrated on his task to answer with anything other than a brief nod.

For what seemed like an age they ploughed through one huge drift after another, with the high rocky walls of the Pass frowning down at them till at last the rugged hills fell back from the road, the air lightened, and they were through the Pass, with less than two miles between them and the warmth and shelter of the hotel. The road now ran along a high ridge, which the wind had swept clear of snow, and Bob stopped the car and relaxed with a great sigh.

“Guess we’d better wait for the others to catch up,” he said. “We broke a path for them, though, and it ought to be a lot easier for them than it was for us.”

“You must be all in, Bob,” said Joe. “You handled this car like an old timer, but now it’s about time you had a relief. Why not let me take a hack at it for the rest of the way?”

But Bob laughed, and shook his head. “I wouldn’t have missed that for a farm,” he said. “It was hard work, but it was the best kind of sport, too. Besides, Jim here says that the road runs along this ridge almost to the doors of the hotel, and it will be easy sailing the rest of the way.”

“I wonder what has become of the other cars?” said Mr. Layton, in a worried tone. “I hope nothing has happened to them.”

He had hardly ceased speaking, when one of the automobiles appeared, so covered with snow that it was hard to believe that it was actually a car at all. Shortly afterward the Salper car appeared, came to a halt when its driver saw the other two at a standstill, and its French chauffeur descended and advanced stiffly to where Bob and the driver of the second Layton car were standing.

“Pah!” he exclaimed. “In all France there is no road like that which I have just traverse. I am hire to drive ze petrol car, not ze snow plough. It eez ze so great mystery zat we have arrive so far.”

“Mystery is right,” agreed Jim, the injured driver. “The only casualty up to date is my busted wing, which is a lot better than a busted neck. But you’d better get back in your glass house, Frenchy, because we’re all frozen stiff, and the sooner we land at the hotel, the better. My arm feels as though it must be broken in twenty places.”

The Frenchman looked doubtfully at Jim when he spoke of an injured “wing,” but evidently set it down as being one more incomprehensible vagary of the English language, for he only shrugged his shoulders and returned to his car without comment.

The short day was drawing rapidly into night when the little party at last saw the cheerful lights of the hotel shining through the storm. Fifteen minutes later the lads were all seated in front of a roaring open fire in the big parlor and were telling their experiences to the amazed guests.

Bob was the only uncomfortable one in the crowd, as he heard everybody speaking in praise of the way he had risen to the emergency and was thankful for more reasons than one when dinner was announced.

“Dinner!” exclaimed Jimmy, rapturously. “Bob, I’ve got to hand it to you. Not only do you get us here through a howling blizzard, but you land us just in time for a turkey dinner. Oh my, oh my!”

The Mountain Rest Hotel had a reputation for serving generous meals, and for this the boys were thankful that night. Through all the long, cold day they had eaten nothing but a few sandwiches, and now they strove to make up for lost time. Not in vain, either. Even Jimmy had to own up that he could not eat another mouthful, which was a statement he could seldom truthfully make.

Owing to the sickness in Clintonia, there had been an unprecedented rush of visitors to the hotel, and the Layton party discovered that they would have to take one of the small cottages adjoining the hotel, although they would board in the main establishment.

The cottage was snug and comfortable, however, and they were all delighted with it. Indeed, it was better for the radio boys than rooms in the hotel, because they could set up their receiving set more readily. Of course, it was out of the question to erect an outdoor aerial, but they were not bothered by this and decided to use a loop aerial instead. They had brought with them a knock-down frame on which to wind their antenna, and this frame could be moved around and set against the wall when not in use.

The first night at Mountain Pass they had little thought, however, even for their beloved radio, and were content to tumble into bed shortly after dinner. But the next day they were up early, and after a hearty breakfast set to work to put up their set.

CHAPTER X – CONVINCING A SKEPTIC

It was a simple matter for the boys to wind the loop aerial, for they had become expert in the manipulation of wire, tape, and the numerous other accessories that go with the art of wireless telephony. After the aerial was completed they unpacked their receiving set and quickly connected it up. They worked skillfully and efficiently, and before the lunch bell rang at noon they were ready to receive signals.

But even their enthusiasm was not proof against the seductive summons of the genial looking old darky who rang the bell, and they washed hastily and started for the dining room at a pace that would have reflected credit on the hungriest boarder who ever lived.

“Gang way, Bob!” panted Jimmy, as they clattered down the last flight of stairs and dashed for the entrance to the hotel. “I’m hungry, and, therefore, desperate. Get out of the way before I trip over you!”

“Good night!” shouted Bob. “You’re getting too fresh to live, Jimmy,” and he picked up a handful of snow and dropped it carefully and with precision down Jimmy’s fat neck.

“Ugh!” exclaimed that corpulent youth, stopping short in his wild rush and digging snow from under his collar. “I’ll get even with you for that, Bob, you old hobo. Just you wait!”

“Can’t wait a second,” grinned Bob. “I don’t want to be late and miss all the good things, even if you do.”

“Come on, Doughnuts, don’t stand there all day picking snow off you,” entreated Herb. “I can’t see where there’s any fun in that.”

Jimmy reached down, packed a handful of snow, and sent it flying after the others. They were close to the door, however, and ducked in unscathed, while the snowball spread out in a big patch against the door casing.

Jimmy did not allow himself to be delayed very long at any time when there was food in prospect, however, and his friends had hardly seated themselves at the table when he came in, his collar badly dampened, but his appetite in prime condition. He shook his fist surreptitiously at the others, but he was incapable of staying angry long, and was soon his usual jolly and happy-go-lucky self.

The snowstorm had stopped during the night, the weather had grown warmer, and a brilliant sun now shone down on a dazzlingly white world. The snow had come ahead of time, as all the “regulars” at the Mountain Rest Hotel united in asserting, and now it gave every indication of disappearing as fast as it had come.

The boys wanted to get back to their radio set after dinner, but the snow looked so inviting that they could not resist the temptation to have a snow fight. Some of the men, seeing them hard at it, cast dignity to the winds and joined them, until quite a miniature battle was raging. Ammunition was plentiful, and there was a good deal of shouting and laughter before both sides became tired and agreed to call it a draw.

The radio boys were pretty damp with snow water, and their hands were stiff with cold, but trifling discomforts such as these did not bother them much. They had had a good time, and they knew that there is seldom any fun that does not have its own drawbacks. They went to their rooms, changed the wettest of their clothing for dry articles, and were soon ready to test their set.

They were just making a final inspection of their connections when Mr. Layton entered the room, accompanied by two other gentlemen.

Mr. Layton introduced the two latter as the owners of the store he was thinking of purchasing.

“Mr. Blackford and Mr. Robins are rather skeptical about radio,” explained Mr. Layton, when the introductions had been duly accomplished. “I happened to mention it this morning, and as they both seemed to think I was exaggerating its possibilities, I asked them here to see and hear for themselves.”

“It’s no trouble to show goods,” said Bob, grinning. “We haven’t tested for signals yet, but the set is all hooked up, and I guess all we’ll have to do is tune up and get about anything you want.”

“You seem pretty confident,” remarked one of the two strangers, Mr. Robins. “My opinion is, that this radio stuff is mostly bunk. A friend of mine bought a set just a little while ago, and he couldn’t hear a thing with it. Paid fifteen dollars for it, too.”

“I shouldn’t imagine he could,” said Bob, drily. “Mountain Pass must be at least a hundred miles from the nearest broadcasting station, and that set you speak of could never be expected to catch anything more than twenty-five miles away, at the most.”

“Well, I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts you can’t hear anything with that outfit you’ve got there, either,” broke in the other of the two strangers.

“You’d lose your money, Blackford,” said Bob’s father. “Go ahead and convince these doubting Thomases, Bob.”

Bob adjusted a headset over his ears and switched on the current through the vacuum bulb filament. Then he manipulated the voltage of the “B,” or high voltage, dry battery, and also varied the current flowing through the filament by means of a rheostat connected in series with it. Almost immediately he caught a far-away sound of music, and by manipulation of the variometer and condenser knobs gradually increased the strength of the sounds.

Meantime Mr. Layton’s two acquaintances had watched proceedings with open skepticism, and often glanced knowingly at each other. But suddenly, as Bob twisted the knob of the variable condenser, the music became so loud that all in the room could hear it, even though they had no receivers over their ears.

“If either of you two gentlemen will put these receivers on, he’ll be convinced that radio is no fake,” said Bob quietly, at the same time removing his headset and holding it out.

After a moment’s hesitation Mr. Robins donned the receivers, and a startled look came over his face, replacing the incredulous expression it had worn heretofore.

“Let’s hook up another set of phones, Bob, and let Mr. Blackford listen at the same time,” suggested Joe.

This was done, and soon both skeptics were listening to their first radio concert. Mr. Layton regarded them with an amused smile. Mr. Robins extended his hand curiously toward the condenser knob, and immediately the music died away. He pulled his hand hastily away, and the sounds resumed their former volume.

“Don’t be frightened,” laughed Mr. Layton. “It won’t bite you.”

“But what made it fade away in that fashion?” asked Mr. Robins.

“Don’t ask me,” said Bob’s father. “I’m not up on radio the way the boys are. I enjoy it, without knowing much of the modus operandi.”

“That was caused by what is known as ‘body capacity,’” explained Bob. “Every human being is more or less of a natural condenser, and when you get near the regular condenser in that set, it puts more capacity into the circuit, and interferes with its balance.”

The other nodded, although in reality he understood very little of even this simple explanation. He was too much absorbed in listening to what was going on in the phones.

As he listened, he heard the latest stock market quotations given out, among them being the last minute prices of some shares he happened to be interested in. He slapped his knee enthusiastically, and when the last quotations had been given, he snatched off the headset and leaped to his feet.

“I’m converted!” he fairly shouted. “I’ll buy this outfit right as it stands for almost any price you fellows want to put on it. What will you sell it for?”

The boys were taken aback by this unexpected offer, and all looked at Bob expectantly.

“Why, we hadn’t even thought of selling the set,” he said slowly. “We wouldn’t sell it right now, at any price, I think. But when we leave here to go back home, I suppose we might let you have it. How about it, fellows?”

After some argument they agreed to this, but Mr. Robins was so determined to have the set that he would not be put off.

“Now look here,” he said. “I’m a business man, and I’ll make you a business proposition. I’ll buy that outfit right now, before I leave this room, at your own figure. But you fellows can keep it here and have the use of it just the same as you have now, only it will be understood that I’ll have the privilege of coming over here once a day in time to hear those market reports. At the same time you can teach me something about operating the thing. How does that strike you?” and he threw himself back in his chair and waited for his answer.

“We’ll have to talk over that offer for a little while,” said Bob. “Give us ten minutes or so, and we’ll give you an answer.”

“That’s all right,” replied Mr. Robins. “While I’m waiting I’ll just put on those ear pieces again and see what’s doing.”

The radio boys left the room and held an excited conference downstairs. After some discussion they agreed to sell their set, as long as they could have the use of it during their stay at the resort, but the matter of price proved to be a knotty problem. Bob produced pencil and paper, and they figured the actual cost of the set to themselves, and then what the same set would have cost if bought ready made in a retail store.

“The actual material in that set didn’t cost us much over forty dollars, but we put a whole lot of time and experience into it,” said Bob, “It would cost him close to a hundred to get as good a one in a store.”

“It’s a mighty good set, too,” said Joe, a note of regret in his voice. “We might make another as near like it as possible, and not get nearly as good results.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We’re some radio builders by this time,” Herb reminded him. “Besides, that isn’t the only set we’ve got.”

“Let’s ask him eighty dollars,” ventured Jimmy. “He’ll be getting it cheaper then than he could buy it retail, and we’ll be picking up a nice piece of change.”

“I think that ought to be about the right figure,” agreed Bob. “Does that suit this board of directors? Eighty hard, round iron men?”

The others grinned assent, and they returned to the room where the older men were still seated about the radio set.

“Well, what’s the verdict?” inquired Mr. Robins, glancing keenly from one to the other.

“We’ve decided to sell,” replied Bob. “The price will be eighty dollars.”

Without a word Mr. Robins produced a roll of greenbacks, and counted off the specified amount in crisp bills.

“You’ll want a receipt, won’t you, Robins?” inquired Mr. Layton.

“Not necessary,” replied the other. “I’ve got a hunch that your son and his friends are on the level and won’t try to cheat an old fellow like me. I’ll have to be going now, but I’ll be around about the same time tomorrow morning to get the stock quotations. Coming, Blackford?”