A telegraph messenger pedalled up the drive, sprang off his bicycle and ran up the steps to Bill.
“Wire for you, Mr. Bolton,” he said, handing him a yellow envelope. “The manager says he wrote out the message just as it came in, but he can’t make head nor tail of it—he—”
Bill ripped open the flap with his finger tips, drew forth the telegraph form and saw typewritten below his address a single line of words in an unknown language.
“Tell the manager,” he replied, “that the message is really for Chief Osceola and that it is written in the Seminole language. Anything to pay?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, stick your fist into this pocket of my coat and help yourself to a quarter.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bolton.” The boy grinned delightedly as he transferred the money to his own pocket. Then he ran down the steps, jumped on his wheel, and sped down the drive.
Bill looked at the secret service man and smiled. “No need to tell the manager all we know, Mister—er—Davis,” he said. “And especially when I really don’t know anything. Of course, the message is in code and although it was sent from New York City, I have a sneaking idea that it originated in Washington, D. C.”
The secret service man nodded. “You’re a good guesser, Bolton. Washington is taking no chances either. The code is a double interchange of letters. Simple enough when you know it and easy to remember. Hand it over. I’ll explain as I translate.” He laid the paper on his knee and took out a pencil.
“So you see,” he continued, after deciphering the code, “it reads: ‘Take your orders from Ashton Sanborn V8LR.’”