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Updated: May 17, 2025
On every placid pool at the foot of some race of ripples it mixes Morse-code dots and dashes with stenographic curves, all written in white foam on the smooth black mirror of the surface. Nor does it end there, so eager it is to call its message to my notice.
Then he began, carefully, methodically to send a Morse-code message to his companion via his winking eyes. "O-N-L-Y one gun between them. You take big fellow. I'll charge gun ..." "Can't you figure this thing out either?" asked Mason, leaning over Loring's shoulder. "Ah, this wagon is an old converted chemical burner. These controls are old as the sun. I've got to find the automatic pilot!"
Only the foam writing gives brief opportunity for one to study the characters and decide what they mean: Sometimes there it is not difficult to find words in the Morse-code and phrases in the stenographic curves though I have no more than a word or a brief phrase before the current rearranges the puzzle and I must begin all over again. I doubt not many brookside idlers have done as much as that.
Through the quiver of sun and shade it sends heliograph flashes to me on the bank, making again the dots and dashes of the Morse-code alphabet, yet still with such lightning-like rapidity that my dull eye fails to read.
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