During the afternoon watch on this day in which George had gone to Mr. Sparks again, the young fellow got relief and approached the radio room. The chief was off duty and one of his assistants was at the instrument. But the older man was lolling in the doorway and welcomed Belding with a smile.
“Jim, here,” said Sparks, nodding to the student at the instrument, “was just telling me ‘ghost talk’ is coming over again. He says he gets ‘Colodia’ as clear as can be.”
“My goodness! Then somebody is trying to call us, Mr. Sparks!” murmured Belding.
“I don’t know. I’ve been keeping track, busy as we have been for a couple of days. I really think there is some attempt to put a message over; but whether it is for fun or serious, I would not dare state. Or whether it is meant for us or not. It isn’t the same message each time.”
“But you do believe that somebody is trying—or something?”
“‘Something’ is good,” growled Sparks. “I’ve made out ‘Colodia’ more than a few times myself. And I agree that the letters you caught the last time you were listening in, and which I heard myself, may spell ‘Redbird’. Then, you know, you said you heard ‘help.’”
“Well, I did!” snorted Belding.
The radio chief pushed a square bit of paper into his hand. On it were set down without spacing of any kind the following line of letters:
“c,o,l,o,d,i,a,h,e,l,p,r,e,d,b,i,r,d,l,b.”
“I will be honest with you, George,” he said, watching closely the flushing face of the youth. “I really got those letters not half an hour ago. They were repeated in just that order several times. What do you make out of them?”