IN THE OPEN CODE

_By_ BURTON KLINE

From _The Stratford Journal_

_Copyright, 1918, by The Stratford Journal._

_Copyright, 1919, by Burton Kline._

The day’s work was finished and the entire job well started. I felt sure

we should meet old Bankard’s wishes fully. The rare old Virginia manor

and its wooded park were going to look again as the original designer

meant them to appear. Gordon, I know, agreed with me—Gordon, who was to

restore the house as I restored the grounds.

That evening he and I were sitting on a rusted iron bench in a corner of

the park that looked off over the hills, watching the summer dusk steal

up the eastern sky. I still wanted to talk of the day’s accomplishment,

but Gordon seemed to have grown—I was going to say dreamy, but he was

watchful instead.

Presently he drew out his watch and said, “In just about four minutes

you will hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“See that notch between those two hills about a mile and a half away

over there?” He pointed. “Keep your eye on that.”

“A blast?”

“Yes, a blast. But not the kind you think. Just watch.”

We smoked in silence, and my curiosity was about to break into speech

again, or ebb altogether, when it happened.

An ordinary freight train passed, but the locomotive, as it emerged from

the flat hillside and traversed the broad notch, let off a stream of

white puffs from its whistle, and then disappeared behind the other

hill, precisely like an episode on the stage.

In a moment the white puffs translated themselves from a sight in the

eye to a sound in the ear. And I tell the truth when I say that they

reproduced, with a mimicry that was startling, the notes of the last two

bars of “Annie Laurie.”

“What do you make of that!” Gordon turned and exulted to me over his odd

little discovery.

“How did you get on to it?”

“Oh, stumbled across it the first evening we were here. It goes every

day at this time, as regular as clock-work.”

“Some engineer with a sense of humor amusing himself,” I conjectured.

“But regularity isn’t amusement. He blows it every day at this time. And

always in the same way.”

The best short stories of 1918, and the yearbook of the American short story · 第 27 / 85 题