toward good, and in the strong influence of a husband's
unfaltering love. Mrs. Billinos, sir, is here -- in that
room -- the
lawyer's long arm
pointed to the door.
"I will call her in at once; and our united pleadings -- "
Lawyer Gooch paused, for
client number three had
leaped from his chair as if propelled by steel springs, and
clutched his satchel.
"What the devil," he exclaimed,
harshly, "do vou
mean? That woman in there! I thought I shook her
off forty miles back."
He ran to the open window, looked out below, and threw
one leg over the sill.
"Stop!" cried Lawyer Gooch, in
amazement. "What
would you do? Come, Mr. Billings, and face your
erring but
innocent wife. Our combined entreaties cannot
fail to -- "
"Billings!" shouted the now
thoroughly moved
client.
"I'll Billings you, you old idiot!"
Turning, he hurled his satchel with fury at the
lawyer's
head. It struck that astounded peacemaker between
the eyes, causing him to
staggerbackward a pace or two.
When Lawyer Gooch recovered his wits he saw that his
client had disappeared. Rushing to the window, he
leaned out, and saw the recreant
gathering himself up from
the top of a shed upon which he had dropped from the
second-story window. Without stopping to collect his
hat he then plunged
downward the remaining ten feet
to the alley, up which he flew with
prodigious celerity
until the
surrounding building swallowed him up from
view.
Lawyer Gooch passed his hand tremblingly across his
brow. It was a
habitual act with him, serving to clear
his thoughts. Perhaps also it now seemed to
soothe the
spot where a very hard alligator-hide satchel had struck.
The satchel lay upon the floor, wide open, with its con-
tents spilled about. Mechanically, Lawyer Gooch stooped
to gather up the articles. The first was a
collar; and
the omniscient eye of the man of law perceived, wonder-
ingly, the
initials H.K.J. marked upon it. Then came
a comb, a brush, a folded map, and a piece of soap.
lastly, a
handful of old business letters, addressed --
every one of them -- to "Henry K. Jessup, Esq."
Lawyer Gooch closed the satchel, and set it upon the
table. He hesitated for a moment, and then put on his hat
and walked into the office boy's anteroom.
"Archibald," he said
mildly, as he opened the hall door,
"I am going around to the Supreme Court rooms. In five
minutes you may step into the inner office, and inform the
lady who is
waiting there that" -- here Lawyer Gooch
made use of the vernacular -- "that there's nothing
doing."
CALLOWAY'S CODE
The New York Enterprise sent H. B. Calloway as
special
correspondent to the Russo-Japanese-Portsmouth
war.
For two months Calloway hung about Yokohama
and Tokio, shaking dice with the other
correspondents
for drinks of 'rickshaws -- oh, no, that's something to
ride in; anyhow, he wasn't earning the salary that his
paper was paying him. But that was not Calloway's
fault. The little brown men who held the strings of
Fate between their fingers were not ready for the readers
of the Enterprise to season their breakfast bacon and
eggs with the battles of the descendants of the gods.
But soon the
column of
correspondents that were to
go out with the First Army tightened their field-glass
belts and went down to the Yalu with Kuroki. Calloway
was one of these.
Now, this is no history of the battle of the Yalu River.
That has been told in detail by the
correspondents who
gazed at the shrapnel smoke rings from a distance of
three miles. But, for justice's sake, let it be understood
that the Japanese
commander prohibited a nearer view.
Calloway's feat was
accomplished before the battle.
What he did was to furnish the Enterprise with the
biggest beat of the war. That paper published exclu-
sively and in detail the news of the attack on the lines of
the Russian General on the same day that it
was made. No other paper printed a word about it for
two days afterward, except a London paper, whose
account was
absolutelyincorrect and untrue.
Calloway did this in face of the fact that General Kuroki
was making, his moves and living his plans with the pro-
foundest
secrecy, as far as the world outside his camps was
concerned. The
correspondents were
forbidden to send out
any news
whatever of his plans; and every message that
was allowed on the wires was censored -- with rigid severity.
The
correspondent for the London paper handed in
a cablegram describing, Kuroki's plans; but as it was
wrong from
beginning to end the censor grinned and let
it go through.
So, there they were -- Kuroki on one side of the Yalu
with forty-two thousand
infantry, five thousand cavalry,
and one hundred and twenty-four guns. On the other
side, Zassulitch waited for him with only twenty-three
thousand men, and with a long stretch of river to guard.
And Calloway had got hold of some important inside
information that he knew would bring the Enterprise
staff around a cablegram as thick as flies around a Park
Row
lemonade stand. If he could only get that message
past the censor -- the new censor who had arrived and
taken his post that day!
Calloway did the
obviously proper thing. He lit his pipe
and sat down on a gun
carriage to think it over. And
there we must leave him; for the rest of the story belongs
to Vesey, a sixteen-dollar-a-week
reporter on the Enterprise.
Calloway's cablegram was handed to the managing editor
at four o'clock in the afternoon. He read it three times; and
then drew a pocket mirror from a pigeon-hole in his desk,
and looked at his
reflection carefully. 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
beginningletters
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. 'Muf-
fled 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.
A city editor must know something about everything;
so Scott knew a little about cipher-writing.
"It may be what is called an inverted
alphabet cipher,"
said he. "I'll try that. 'R' seems to be the oftenest
used
initial letter, with the
exception of 'm.' Assuming
'r' to mean 'e', the most frequently used vowel, we
transpose the letters -- so."
Scott worked rapidly with his pencil for two minutes;
and then showed the first word according to his reading
-- the word "Scejtzez."
"Great!" cried Boyd. "It's a charade. My first
is a Russian general. Go on, Scott."
"No, that won't work," said the city editor. "It's
undoubtedly a code. It's impossible to read it without
the key. Has the office ever used a cipher code?"
"Just what I was asking," said the m.e. "Hustle
everybody up that ought to know. We must get at it
some way. Calloway has
evidently got hold of some-
thing big, and the censor has put the screws on, or he
wouldn't have cabled in a lot of chop suey like this."
Throughout the office of the Enterprise a dragnet
was sent, hauling in such members of the staff as would
be likely to know of a code, past or present, by reason
of their
wisdom, information, natural
intelligence, or
length of
servitude. They got together in a group in
the city room, with the m. e. in the centre. No one had
heard of a code. All began to explain to the head investi-
gator that newspapers never use a code, anyhow -- that
is, a cipher code. Of course the Associated Press stuff
is a sort of code -- an abbreviation, rather -- but --
The m. e. knew all that, and said so. He asked each man
how long he had worked on the paper. Not one of them
had drawn pay from an Enterprise
envelope for longer than
six years. Calloway had been on the paper twelve years.
"Try old Heffelbauer," said the m. e. "He was here
when Park Row was a potato patch."
Heffelbauer was an
institution. He was half janitor,
half handy-man about the office, and half
watchman --
thus becoming the peer of thirteen and one-half tailors.
Sent for, he came, radiating his nationality.
"Heffelbauer," said the m. e., "did you ever hear of a
code belonging to the office a long time ago - a private
code? You know what a code is, don't you?"
"Yah," said Heffelbauer. "Sure I know vat a code is.
Yah, apout dwelf or fifteen year ago der office had a code.
Der reborters in der city-room haf it here."
"Ah!" said the m. e. "We're getting on the trail now.
Where was it kept, Heffelbauer? What do you know
about it?"
"Somedimes," said the retainer, "dey keep it in der
little room behind der library room."
"Can you find it asked the m. e.
eagerly. "Do you
know where it is?"
"Mein Gott!" said Heffelbauer. "How long you
dink a code live? Der reborters call him a maskeet.
But von day he butt mit his head der editor,
und -- "
"Oh, he's talking about a goat," said Boyd. "Get
out, Heffelbauer."
Again discomfited, the concerted wit and
resource of
the Enterprise huddled around Calloway's
puzzle, con-
sidering its
mysterious words in vain.
Then Vesey came in.
Vesey was the youngest
reporter. He had a thirty-