The sounder had suddenly ceased.
“But he's stopped,” said MacVightie; “and you said if he stopped——”
“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.'.rdquo;
“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!”