“I have been on a trip to New Orleans,” he added, “or I would have been down in Damietta sooner, for I like the place.”
“The summer isn’t generally considered a good time to go so far south,” ventured Ben.
“That is true, as relates to Northerners, but I was born in the Crescent City, and have no fear of Yellow Jack; fact is, I have had the confounded disease myself. By the way, have you a message for me?”
“We have two, in fact I may say three, for the copy of the first one that went down the river with me has never been handed you, and one came a day or two after you left.”
“I know what they are, so you needn’t mind about them. I will take the last, if you please.”
“It arrived within the last half hour,” explained Ben, as he handed the damp sheet to him.
The boy watched his countenance while Burkhill was reading it. It took several minutes for him to study out its meaning, but he did so without the aid of pencil or paper. A strange glitter came into his gray eyes as the meaning broke upon him, and he muttered something to himself which the lad did not quite catch.
Then he turned to the desk, and was engaged only a minute or two when he handed a return message to Ben, paying for it as the man had done who forwarded the other to him. It was this:
“Uibu rthsr fybdumz Vhkk cf qdzex.
“G. R. Burkhill.”