“Come, Rik, don’t keep us in suspense,” said his brother, rising; “something has happened.”
“O yes, something has indeed happened,” cried Rik, “for this telegram is from Sam Shipton.”
“Then Robin is alive!” cried Mrs Wright, leaping up, while Madge turned perfectly white.
“No—that is to say—yes—it may be so—of course must be so—for,—bah! what an ass I am! Listen.”
He proceeded to read Sam’s telegram, while Mrs Wright covered her face with her hands and sank trembling on the sofa.
The telegram having suffered rather severe mutilation at the hands of the foreigners by whom it was transmitted, conveyed a very confusing idea of the facts that were intended, but the puzzling over it by the whole party, and the gradual, though not perfect, elucidation of its meaning, had perhaps the effect of softening the joyful intelligence to a bearable extent.
“Now,” said uncle Rik, while the perspiration of mental effort and anxiety stood on his bald forehead, “this is the outcome of it all. Sam clearly says ‘all well,’ which means, of course, that Robin is alive—thank God for that! Then he refers to a previous telegram, which, of course, must be lost, for it hasn’t come to hand. Bah! I wonder the nasty things ever do come to hand. Anyhow, that telegram must have been meant to announce their safe arrival at Bombay, undoubtedly.”
“Of course—I see it now,” said Mrs Wright, with a deep sigh.
“Of course,” echoed Rik. “Then there’s some queer reference to a ship and a Fiery Queen, and a Stamps and a Shunks, and a Gibson, and a thief, and three bags, and the port of London, which of course means London, and a public-house named, apparently, Torture—”
“Tartar, I think, uncle,” said Madge.