"No word as to that."

Alan, not delaying to question further, went back to the cabins.

These stretched aft, behind the bridge, along the upper deck, some
score on each side of the ship; they had accommodations for almost a
hundred passengers; but on this crossing only a few were occupied.
Alan had noticed some half dozen men--business men, no doubt, forced to
make the crossing and, one of them, a Catholic priest, returning
probably to some mission in the north; he had seen no women among them.
A little group of passengers were gathered now in the door of or just
outside the wireless cabin, which was one of the row on the starboard
side. Stewards stood with them and the cabin maid; within, and bending
over the table with the radio instrument, was the operator with the
second officer beside him. The violet spark was rasping, and the
operator, his receivers strapped over his ears, strained to listen. He
got no reply, evidently, and he struck his key again; now, as he
listened, he wrote slowly on a pad.

"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