PREFATORY AND DEDICATORY. MY DEAR L Do you remember standing with me upon the bridge, and tossing chip boats into the river, and how eagerly we watched to see which should drift ashore, or wreck themselves against the stone pier, or remain idle and motionless in the eddy pool, and which should glide safely through the arch and down the smooth stream beyond Come, now, and help me launch another venture, the little craft called Cipher, whose construction you have watched with such ready sympathy and interest, and to whose freight you have so largely contributed. What is to be its fate Will it be stranded, or shattered, or left idly in the pool, or run down by heavier craft, or sunk by the missiles of those wicked boys upon the other bank Shall we call to the boys and deprecate their attack by a confession that our little boat is not an iron-clad war vessel, much less our final idea of an elegant yacht, and that even for a chip boat she has been almost spoiled by over-whittling No, never mind the boys let us say nothing at all to them, but, standing hand in hand, watch together the fortunes of our little craft, thanking God that, should she sink or should she swim, she does not carry our lives or our happiness with her. Concord, Mass., April, 1869. J. G. A. CIPHER A NOVEL. PART FIRST. CHAPTER I. MR. GILLIESS FIRST LETTER, T Q. A. GILLIES, Post-Office. Why, heres a letter for Mr. Gillies. I First one that ever I see The scene was the interior of a city post-office, the speaker a carrier or postman, who stood at one end of a long table assorting a heap of letters thrown there for him to arrange and distribute. The clerk whom he addressed paused a moment in his occupation of can- celling thestamps upon a mountain of outward-bound letters and glanced at the one in the hand of the carrier. For Gillies, sure enough, and as you say, the first one I ever knew of his getting. There he is, making up the northern mail. Youd better hand it over. Lets see what hell say to it, remarked the carrier, crossing the office and approaching another table covered with letters and packages, where stood a middle-aged man, with stooping shoulders and the sallow complexion peculiar to men and plants grown in the shade. He was busy in folding small parcels of the letters before him in wrappers, announcing their contents at the same time in a voice whose sonorous sweetness contrasted even grotesquely with his appearance, while a clerk opposite rapidly entered the list thus dictated in a large volume, and two assistants tied and backed or docketed the little packages. Barnstable, N. H., twenty-seven, nine, three. Biddeford, Maine, six, two, intoned the yellow man. A letter for you, Mr. Gillies, interposed the carrier, it tossing upon the table. Not forme. Never have letters. Benson, Vermont, twelve, four chanted the clerk. Youre J. Q. A. Gillies, I expect, arent you asked the carrier, a little indignantly, as he caught up the letter and thrust it under the eyes of the impassive Gillies, who was already reciting, 6 CIPHER. Carringlon Centre, Vermont, three, twelve, three. As the letter was thus abruptly interposed between his eyes and the package already completed beneath his nimble fingers, he cast a hurried glance and then a steady look at it, while an expression of astonishment, even of alarm, crossed his face. John Q. A. Gillies, yes, thats my name, but it cant be for me. I never have letters, said he, reluctantly...
