Tar Rahit

"They ought to take these poultry in--all knocked about like that," said Mr. Shaynor. "Doesn't it make you feel fair perishing? See that old hare! The wind's nearly blowing the fur off him." I saw the belly-fur of the dead beast blown apart in ridges and streaks as the wind caught it, showing bluish skin underneath. "Bitter cold," said Mr. Shaynor, shuddering. "Fancy going out on a night like this! Oh, here's young Mr. Cashell." The door of the inner office behind the dispensary opened, and an energetic, spade-bearded man stepped forth, rubbing his hands. "I want a bit of tin-foil, Shaynor," he said. "Good-evening. My uncle told me you might be coming." This to me, as I began the first of a hundred questions. "I've everything in order," he replied. "We're only waiting until Poole calls us up. Excuse me a minute. You can come in whenever you like--but I'd better be with the instruments. Give me that tin-foil. Thanks." While we were talking, a girl--evidently no customer--had come into the shop, and the face and bearing of Mr. Shaynor changed. She leaned confidently across the counter. "But I can't," I heard him whisper uneasily--the flush on his cheek was dull red, and his eyes shone like a drugged moth's. "I can't. I tell you I'm alone in the place." "No, you aren't. Who's _that_? Let him look after it for half an hour. A brisk walk will do you good. Ah, come now, John." "But he isn't----" "I don't care. I want you to; we'll only go round by St. Agnes. If you don't----" He crossed to where I stood in the shadow of the dispensary counter, and began some sort of broken apology about a lady-friend. "Yes," she interrupted. "You take the shop for half an hour--to oblige _me_, won't you?" She had a singularly rich and promising voice that well matched her outline. "All right," I said. "I'll do it--but you'd better wrap yourself up, Mr. Shaynor." "Oh, a brisk walk ought to help me. We're only going round by the church." I heard him cough grievously as they went out together. I refilled the stove, and, after reckless expenditure of Mr. Cashell's coal, drove some warmth into the shop. I explored many of the glass- knobbed drawers that lined the walls, tasted some disconcerting drugs, and, by the aid of a few cardamoms, ground ginger, chloric-ether, and dilute alcohol, manufactured a new and wildish drink, of which I bore a glassful to young Mr. Cashell, busy in the back office. He laughed shortly when I told him that Mr. Shaynor had stepped out--but a frail coil of wire held all his attention, and he had no word for me bewildered among the batteries and rods. The noise of the sea on the beach began to make itself heard as the traffic in the street ceased. Then briefly, but very lucidly, he gave me the names and uses of the mechanism that crowded the tables and the floor. "When do you expect to get the message from Poole?" I demanded, sipping my liquor out of a graduated glass. "About midnight, if everything is in order. We've got our installation- pole fixed to the roof of the house. I shouldn't advise you to turn on a tap or anything tonight. We've connected up with the plumbing, and all the water will be electrified." He repeated to me the history of the agitated ladies at the hotel at the time of the first installation. "But what _is_ it?" I asked. "Electricity is out of my beat altogether." "Ah, if you knew _that_ you'd know something nobody knows. It's just It- - what we call Electricity, but the magic--the manifestations--the Hertzian waves--are all revealed by _this_. The coherer, we call it." He picked up a glass tube not much thicker than a thermometer, in which, almost touching, were two tiny silver plugs, and between them an infinitesimal pinch of metallic dust. "That's all," he said, proudly, as though himself responsible for the wonder. "That is the thing that will reveal to us the Powers--whatever the Powers may be--at work--through space--a long distance away." Just then Mr. Shaynor returned alone and stood coughing his heart out on the mat. "Serves you right for being such a fool," said young Mr. Cashell, as annoyed as myself at the interruption. "Never mind--we've all the night before us to see wonders." Shaynor clutched the counter, his handkerchief to his lips. When he brought it away I saw two bright red stains. "I--I've got a bit of a rasped throat from smoking cigarettes," he panted. "I think I'll try a cubeb." "Better take some of this. I've been compounding while you've been away." I handed him the brew. "'Twon't make me drunk, will it? I'm almost a teetotaller. My word! That's grateful and comforting." He sat down the empty glass to cough afresh. "Brr! But it was cold out there! I shouldn't care to be lying in my grave a night like this. Don't _you_ ever have a sore throat from smoking?" He pocketed the handkerchief after a furtive peep.