FullReads

“The chair startled me,” I answered. “It was so sudden in this quiet.”

Young Mr. Cashell behind his shut door was offendedly silent.

“I suppose I must have been dreaming,” said Mr. Shaynor.

“I suppose you must,” I said. “Talking of dreams–I–I noticed you writing–before–“

He flushed consciously.

“I meant to ask you if you’ve ever read anything written by a man called Keats.”

“Oh! I haven’t much time to read poetry, and I can’t say that I remember the name exactly. Is he a popular writer?”

“Middling. I thought you might know him because he’s the only poet who was ever a druggist. And he’s rather what’s called the lover’s poet.”

“Indeed. I must dip into him. What did he write about?”

“A lot of things. Here’s a sample that may interest you.”

Then and there, carefully, I repeated the verse he had twice spoken and once written not ten minutes ago.

“Ah. Anybody could see he was a druggist from that line about the tinctures and syrups. It’s a fine tribute to our profession.”

“I don’t know,” said young Mr. Cashell, with icy politeness, opening the door one half-inch, “if you still happen to be interested in our trifling experiments. But, should such be the case—-“

I drew him aside, whispering, “Shaynor seemed going off into some sort of fit when I spoke to you just now. I thought, even at the risk of being rude, it wouldn’t do to take you off your instruments just as the call was coming through. Don’t you see?”

“Granted–granted as soon as asked,” he said unbending. “I did think it a shade odd at the time. So that was why he knocked the chair down?”

“I hope I haven’t missed anything,” I said. “I’m afraid I can’t say that, but you’re just in time for the end of a rather curious performance. You can come in, too, Mr. Shaynor. Listen, while I read it off.”

The Morse instrument was ticking furiously. Mr. Cashell interpreted: “‘K.K.V. Can make nothing of your signals.'” A pause. “‘M.M.V. M.M.V. Signals unintelligible. Purpose anchor Sandown Bay. Examine instruments to-morrow.’ Do you know what that means? It’s a couple of men-o’-war working Marconi signals off the Isle of Wight. They are trying to talk to each other. Neither can read the other’s messages, but all their messages are being taken in by our receiver here. They’ve been going on for ever so long. I wish you could have heard it.”

“How wonderful!” I said. “Do you mean we’re overhearing Portsmouth ships trying to talk to each other–that we’re eavesdropping across half South England?”

“Just that. Their transmitters are all right, but their receivers are out of order, so they only get a dot here and a dash there. Nothing clear.”

“Why is that?”

“God knows–and Science will know to-morrow. Perhaps the induction is faulty; perhaps the receivers aren’t tuned to receive just the number of vibrations per second that the transmitter sends. Only a word here and there. Just enough to tantalise.”

Again the Morse sprang to life.

“That’s one of ’em complaining now. Listen: ‘Disheartening–most disheartening.’ It’s quite pathetic. Have you ever seen a spiritualistic seance? It reminds me of that sometimes–odds and ends of messages coming out of nowhere–a word here and there–no good at all.”

“But mediums are all impostors,” said Mr. Shaynor, in the doorway, lighting an asthma-cigarette. “They only do it for the money they can make. I’ve seen ’em.”

“Here’s Poole, at last–clear as a bell. L.L.L. Now we sha’n’t be long.” Mr. Cashell rattled the keys merrily. “Anything you’d like to tell ’em?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ll go home and get to bed. I’m feeling a little tired.”