His mother tried to comfort him.
“I’m sure he’ll come through it all right,” she said. “It’s too late to send him a letter, but you could send him a telegram.”
“Yes.” Hamilton rose. “I must do that.” He took up the second envelope mechanically and opened it. It was a card like the one Jarvis had given him, with the same heading: “Non Silba Sed Anthra” across the top. The Latin annoyed him, the childish air of mystery, evidently designed to impress persons who did not own Latin dictionaries. There was the same silly signature, Oohay-Oohay-Oopay—pig Latin, of course, for H. H. P., Howard Pinkney. Who else would be asinine enough to think of it? Another message, designed to be mysterious, followed the heading:
“Sir:
“You have been weighed in the balance and found not wanting!
“Strong Men—Brave Men (evidently Pinkney himself)—R-E-A-L Men (probably little Jarvis). We need such men. We know you are one.
“The Bogeys of the Fourth Dimension will shortly issue their call. Be discreet, preserve silence and bide the coming.
“Discuss this matter with no one.
“Oohay-Oohay-Oopay.”
Robert was thinking of McCall. The follow-up invitation of the Trick Track Tribe jarred on him. He thrust the card in his pocket and walked out to send his telegram.