his language, and, besides, we felt so humble in his presence that we wouldn't have ventured to talk to him under any circumstances.
We travelled in England, Ireland, Holland, Belgium, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and France, crossing and recrossing frontiers, and we never encountered a man, woman or child who would consent to look at our passports.
On the other hand, the cable code is something that no tourist should be without. Whenever he is feeling blue or downcast he can open the code book and get a few hearty laughs. Suppose he wishes to send a message to his brother in Toledo. The code permits him to concentrate his message into the tabloid form and put a long newsy letter into two or three words. He opens the blue book and finds that he can send any of the following tidings to Toledo:
Adjunctio– Apartments required are engaged and will be ready for occupation on Wednesday.
Amalior– Bills of lading have not been endorsed.
Animatio– Twins, boy and girl, all well.
Collaria– Received invitation to dinner and theatre, Illaqueo– Have a fly at the station to meet train arriving at eight o'clock.
Napina– Machinery out of order. Delay will be great.
Remissus– Can you obtain good security?
And so on, page after page. Theoretically, this vest pocket volume is a valuable helpmate, but when Mr. Peasley wanted to cable Iowa to have his Masonic dues paid and let Bill Levison take the river farm for another year and try to collect the money from Joe Spillers, the code book did not seem to have the proper equivalents.
We had with us on the boat an American who carried a very elaborate code book. All the way up from Plymouth to London he was working on a cablegram to his wife. When he turned it over to the operator, this is the joyous message that went singing through the water back to New York:
"LIZCAM, New York. Hobgoblin buckwheat explosion manifold cranberry suspicious.
"JAMES."
He showed us a copy and seemed to be very proud of it.
"That's what you save by having a code," he explained.
"What will Lizcam think when he receives that?"
"He? That's my wife's registered cable address. 'Liz' for Lizzie and 'Cam' for Campbell. Her maiden name was Lizzie Campbell."
"Well, what does that mean about a buckwheat hobgoblin having a suspicious explosion?"
"Oh, those words are selected arbitrarily to represent full sentences in the code. When my wife gets that cable she will look up those words one after the other and elaborate the message so that it will read like this:
He showed us the following:
"Mrs. Chauncey Cupple, Mount Joy Hotel, New York – Dear Wife: Well, here we are at London, after a very pleasant voyage, all things considered. We had only two days of inclement weather and I was not seasick at any time. We saw a great many porpoises, but no whales. The third day out I won the pool on the run. Formed the acquaintance of several pleasant people. (Signed) James."
"It's just as good as a letter," said the man from Buffalo.
"Yes, and I save fifty-eight words," said Cupple. "I wouldn't travel without a code."
"Why don't you tack on another word and let her know how many knots we made each day?" asked the Buffalo man, but his sarcasm was wasted.
A week later I met Mr. Cupple and he said that the cablegram had given his wife nervous prostration.
Mr. Cupple is not a careful penman and the cable operator had read the last word of the message as "auspicious" instead of "suspicious." A reference to the code showed that the mistake changed the sense of the message.
"Suspicious– Formed the acquaintance of several pleasant people.
"Auspicious– After a futile effort to work the pumps the captain gave orders to lower the boats. The passengers were in a panic, but the captain coolly restrained them and gave orders that the women and children should be sent away first."
The message, as altered in transmission, caused Mrs. Cupple some uneasiness, and, also, it puzzled her. It was gratifying to know that her husband had enjoyed the voyage and escaped seasickness, but she did not like to leave him on the deck of the ship with a lot of women and children stepping up to take the best places in the boat. Yet she could not believe that he had been lost, otherwise, how could he have filed a cablegram at London?
She wanted further particulars, but she could not find in the code any word meaning "Are you drowned?"
So she sent a forty-word inquiry to London, and when Mr. Cupple counted the cost of it he cabled back:
"All right. Ignore code."
CHAPTER VI
WHAT ONE MAN PICKED UP IN LONDON
AND SENT BACK TO HIS BROTHER
A man is always justly proud of the information which has just come to hand. He enjoys a new piece of knowledge just as a child enjoys a new Christmas toy. It seems impossible for him to keep his hands off of it. He wants to carry it around and show it to his friends, just as a child wants to race through the neighbourhood and display his new toy.
Within a week the toy may be thrown aside, having become too familiar and commonplace, and by the same rule of human weakness the man will toss his proud bit of information into the archives of memory and never haul it out again except in response to a special demand.
These turgid thoughts are suggested by the behaviour of an American stopping at our hotel. He is here for the first time, and he has found undiluted joy in getting the British names of everything he saw. After forty-eight hours in London he was gifted with a new vocabulary, and he could not withstand the temptation to let his brother at home know all about it. The letter which he wrote was more British than any Englishman could have made it.
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