Then he went over to the desk of Boyd, his
assistant (he usually called Boyd when he wanted him), and laid the
cablegram before him.
"It's from Calloway," he said. "See what you make of it."
The message was dated at Wi-ju, and these were the words of it:
Foregone preconcerted rash witching goes muffled rumour mine dark
silent unfortunate richmond existing great hotly brute select
mooted parlous beggars ye angel incontrovertible.
Boyd read it twice.
"It's either a cipher or a sunstroke," said he.
"Ever hear of anything like a code in the office--a secret code?"
asked the m. e., who had held his desk for only two years. Managing
editors come and go.
"None except the vernacular that the lady specials write in," said
Boyd. "Couldn't be an acrostic, could it?"
"I thought of that," said the m. e., "but the beginning letters
contain only four vowels. It must be a code of some sort."
"Try em in groups," suggested Boyd. "Let's see--'Rash witching
goes'--not with me it doesn't. 'Muffled rumour mine'--must
have an underground wire. 'Dark silent unfortunate richmond'--no
reason why he should knock that town so hard. 'Existing great
hotly'--no it doesn't pan out. I'll call Scott."
The city editor came in a hurry, and tried his luck.
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