Again he sat down and thought. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. "The army truck!" he cried. "If he overlooked that, I'll beat him yet." He began to assemble tools and instruments. But when he looked for wire to fashion an aerial, his face grew black. The intruder had taken both aerial and lead-in wire, and Charley hadn't a hundred feet of wire left in the place. What should he do? What could he do? Again he paused and pondered. And again an idea came to him. "They use trees for aerials," he muttered, "and they make perfect ones to receive by. I don't know whether one could send from them or not. But it's my last chance. I'll try it." He gathered together his tools and instruments, including the creepers he had used in putting up the telephone-line, carefully stowed them all in a big basket and started down the mountain. A hundred yards from the door he turned about and ran back. When he came out of the cabin again, his rifle was tucked under his arm. Then he went down the mountain as fast as he could travel. Fearfully he studied the truck as he drew near. It was untouched. With a cry of joy, Charley tore open the battery box. In no time he had some wires fast to the battery. He spread out his instruments and coupled everything carefully together. The outfit lacked only an aerial. Buckling on his creepers, and stuffing some spikes and a hammer in his pocket, Charley rapidly mounted a tall tree that stood close beside the truck. As luck would have it, the tree stood all by itself, its nearest neighbors having been cut in making the road. Two-thirds of the way up the tree, Charley drove a spike deep into the wood. He sank a second spike not far from the first. Then he drove home a third. The lead-in wire dangled behind him at his belt. He unfastened it and twisted it tight to the spikes, wrapping it close about one after the other. Then he climbed down and made sure his wire did not touch the earth. Trembling with eagerness, he sat down at his key. One moment he paused, drawing out his watch. With a cry of joy, he put his finger on the key. It was almost the hour at which he was accustomed to exchange morning greetings with Mr. Morton. He pressed his key and a sharp flash resulted. Joyously he adjusted his spark-gap until he had a fine, fat stream of fire leaping between the posts. Then he fairly held his breath as he rapped out the ranger's call signal. "JVM--JVM--JVM--CBC," he called and listened. There was no response. Again he called. And again there was no response. His face became pale. His fingers began to tremble. "JVM--JVM--JVM--CBC," he rapped out frantically, sending the call again and again. Then he sat back to listen. Suddenly his receivers buzzed. With startling distinctness came the answer. "CBC--CBC--CBC--I--I--I. Your signals very weak." So the ranger could hear, Charley did not care how weak the signals were.