The Wire Devils. Frank L. Packard

      “That’s nothing to do with it!” Martin interposed hurriedly. “The wire isn’t grounded now.”

      “He’s taken to cover, I guess,” said Lanson. “I was afraid he would scare, no matter how——” He broke off abruptly. “Wait! What’s that!”

      The sounder was clicking again; but the sharp, quick tattoo was gone, and in its place, as though indeed it drawled, the sending came in leisurely, deliberate fashion.

      The Hawk’s pencil resumed its labours—and then, with a queer smile, the Hawk scratched out what he had just written. It was no longer code—it was in exceedingly plain English.

      Martin was reading directly from the sounder:

      “‘Try—that—game—just—once—more—and—the—division—goes—up— in—the—air—and—a—train—or—two—maybe—to—a— place—that—Mister—MacVightie—will—some—day—honour—with— his—presence. That’s—quite—plain—isn’t—it? If—you—think—this—is—a—bluff—call—it. Now—keep—off—the—wire—or—have—it—cut. Suit—yourselves.’”

      “Well, of all the infernal nerve!” exploded MacVightie furiously.

      “And the worst of it,” said Lanson shortly, “is that he’s got us where he wants us!”

      Once more the sounder broke into the old quick tattoo. The Hawk was writing steadily again. There was silence now between the three in the office.

      A minute, two, three went by—the sounder ceased—the Hawk closed his notebook. Then in its leisurely drawl the sounder broke again; and again Martin read aloud:

      “‘Pleasant—evening—isn’t—it? Ask—MacVightie—if—he—has—seen—anything—of—the—Hawk. Good-night.’”

      But this time there was only a menacing smile on MacVightie’s lips.

      “He’s west of here, you say?” he shot at Martin. “Yes,” said Martin briefly.

      “And that splice of Calhoun’s, Lanson? Where was that?”

      Lanson, drumming with his fingers on the edge of the operator’s table, looked up with a frown.

      “Nothing but coincidence,” he said tersely. “Yes, it was west of here—pretty near Selkirk.” He moved toward the door. “There’s nothing more we can do here to-night. I’m going back on No. 17. Let’s get out on the platform until she shows up.”

      The Hawk very carefully replaced his notebook, his flashlight and his pencil in his pockets, and, as MacVightie and the superintendent went out of the door, he retreated softly back to the rear window. The window being up, he quite as noiselessly slipped out over the sill. He debated a moment about the window, and decided that if any significance were attached to the fact that it was found open, MacVightie, for instance, was fully entitled to make the most of the significance! Then, the rattle of a wagon sounding from the direction of the road, the Hawk moved along to the end of the station, and waited.

      The wagon, in the light of its own smoky oil lamps, proved to be the town hotel bus. There were evidently other passengers for Selkirk besides himself and the two officials, as several people alighted from the bus. In view of this fact the Hawk calmly lighted a cigarette, though the glow of the match exposed his face only to the blank wall of the station, and walked around to the front platform.

      He located MacVightie and Lanson; and, thereafter, at a safe distance, did not lose sight of them. MacVightie’s memory for faces would hardly be over-rated if credited with being able to bridge a matter of some twenty-four hours, particularly as MacVightie had evidenced unusual interest in the occupant of the room on the first landing over a certain ill-favoured saloon the night before! The Hawk, therefore, was unostentatiously attentive to MacVightie’s movements; so much so that, when No. 17 pulled in and MacVightie and Lanson boarded the chair car at the rear of the train, the Hawk, when No. 17 pulled out, quite logically boarded the smoking car at the forward end.

      The Hawk chose the most uncomfortable seat in the car—the rear seat with stiff, upright, unyielding back, that was built against the wash-room—and, settling himself down, produced his notebook and pencil. The water-cooler could be quite confidentially trusted not to peer over his shoulder!

      On the second page of the notebook—the first having been devoted to the sketch of Bald Creek Station—-the Hawk, as he had taken it from the sounder, had written this:

      “wtaz qxpetlkhu wkmuh hdtlq gvhmmpy hqltvd df rmnluvpo nfkhomovfdh gvkerkmmawrq fljkwte dvsoedtdqqh mgfdoifk rxqkuvwruh gsruwmtdoo ommtlqhvksol foghvklst rvrzqmqxpe mkhurqjkh hvdbfvkdzc mnvohrtpqg hutzklwkj hkdqm mo g v pdlqlfxoq uhgpifthglxg pkhlmfj kwhttwb hv d p q g kdrllu eomosdfnhta shqkjvlyhtg mwdlomruhgegf orwmpqk hvwtzrwk mmrxvddg iqggrqo odusnvrx wmfkriu hkvhuymt hixqljtg wrqpxpeh houwkdmd gwsxws vdexmuooh wtjqlqklmp”

      The Hawk tore out a page from the back of the notebook, and set down the letters of the alphabet in a column. Opposite these he painstakingly set down another column of letters. After that the Hawk worked slowly. It was not quite so simple as it looked—not merely the substitution of letters in a different order of rotation. Nor, apparently, from the Hawk’s observations as he muttered to himself, were all messages to be deciphered alike—the code appeared to possess within itself an elasticity for variation.

      “At four... key letter changed... stroke!” muttered the Hawk. “N-u-m-b... pass three... e-r-t-h... stroke one....”

      The Hawk’s notebook, closed, was reposing idly on the window ledge and the Hawk was lighting another cigarette, as the conductor came down the aisle. The Hawk presented the return stub of a ticket to Selkirk. The conductor punched it, and passed on—and the Hawk picked up his notebook again.

      Again he was interrupted—and again. The water-cooler, after all, was not proving an unmixed blessing. It seemed as though every man in the car were possessed of an inordinate thirst. They were well on toward Selkirk when the Hawk finally completed the deciphering of the message.

      It now ran:

      He arranged the scattered letters into words, and the words into sentences:

      “Number Three and Seven Isaac Kir-schell(’.s cash box to-night as planned. Calhoun to report all line splices his own. Number One says Hawk slender white hands, manicured, medium height, eyes and hair black, expensive tailored clothes. Two thousand dollars out of reserve fund to Number that puts a bullet in him.”

      The Hawk inspected his hands, and smiled whimsically. Number One was the Butcher. He had not given the Butcher credit for being so observant! Presently he stared out of the window.

      “Wonder how much of a haul I can make tonight?” he murmured. “Regular El Dorado—having ‘em work it all up and handing it to you on a gold platter. Pretty soft! Hope they won’t get discouraged and quit picking the chestnuts out of the fire for me—while there’s any chestnuts left!”

      And then the Hawk frowned suddenly. The chestnuts appeared to be only partially picked for him to-night. What was the game—as planned? There must have been a previous message that had got by him. His frown deepened. There was no way of remedying that. To hope to intercept them all was to expect too much. There was no way whereby he could spend twenty-four hours out of twenty-four in touch with a sounder. He shrugged his shoulders philosophically after a moment. Perhaps it was just as well. They credited him with playing a lone hand, believing that his and their depredations were clashing with one another simply by virtue of the fact that their mutual pursuits were of a competitive criminal nature, that was all. If it happened with too much regularity, they might begin to suspect that he had the key to their cipher, and then—the Hawk did not care to contemplate that eventuality. There would be no more chestnuts!

      The Hawk read the first part of the message over again. Who