“Have.... Are you getting—anything?” Only his moving lips, his stretched neck asked the question.
A nod! A nod in which strange, bright crystals formed in the blue eyes, to reinforce the listening one upon the finger. Above them the black eyebrows were drawn together fiercely. The face, in its straining effort, was pale as the meadow-sweet around.
“Then—then stick with it,” he heard himself say hoarsely: oh! he was sharing the golden-rods’ dream.
The horses seemed sharing it, too—they softly snorted.
“Oh! can’t you—can’t you say a—blamed—thing?”
“Una!... Our private call—I got it.” The crystals, dissolving now into tears, rolled down a face, set as ice.
“I can’t—believe—you,” raved the boy, half silently—sullenly.
“Faintly—clearly—distinctly—I got it: six dots, four dashes, the first time. Second—that was indistinct; I picked up ‘U’; I know it was ‘U, di-dit-dah’! Third time, ‘S’, I think; ‘L. S: di-dah-di-dit: di-dit-dit’! Oh-h!” The fireweed lips were trembling awfully.
“Location! Location—try to get it!” The aviator’s whisper was weird.
Silence ensued, moments—ages.