“There, y’ ’ave it!” He seemed greatly relieved. “There’s the message!”
With trembling fingers, Curlie unrolled the bit of cloth. He spread the message on the table and dropped into a chair before it.
For a long time he sat staring at it; yet it would not have required a mind-reader to tell that he made nothing of it. And indeed, how could he? The message, more than a hundred words long, was so written that not one word made any manner of sense with any other that preceded or followed it.
“That,” he said to Jerry, “is worse than a cross-word puzzle.
“The worst of it is,” he added after a moment’s contemplation, “we don’t know who sent it, nor whether we have the least right to interfere with it.
“You see,” he explained, “there are Government posts right up to the shore of the Arctic. The heads of the posts may be trying pigeons as messengers. Then, too, some lone trapper may have carried that bird a thousand miles into the wilderness with the intention of using him in case of distress. This may be a distress message.”
“Written in code?” Jerry lifted his eyebrows.
“Don’t seem probable. But the Government message would be in code.
“I think,” Curlie added after further thought, “that we’ll make a copy of it and send the bird on his way.”
“How do you know you will?” The cabin-dweller was again on his feet. There was a dangerous glint in his eye.