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Updated: June 20, 2025
Cashell snorted within, and Shaynor settled himself up in his chair over which he had thrown a staring red, black, and yellow Austrian jute blanket, rather like a table-cover. I cast about, amid patent medicine pamphlets, for something to read, but finding little, returned to the manufacture of the new drink. The Italian warehouse took down its game and went to bed.
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.
If he hasn't, it's the identical bacillus, or Hertzian wave of tuberculosis, plus Fanny Brand and the professional status which, in conjunction with the main-stream of subconscious thought common to all mankind, has thrown up temporarily an induced Keats." Mr. Shaynor returned to his work, erasing and rewriting as before with swiftness. Two or three blank pages he tossed aside.
Shame I had none in overseeing this revelation; and my fear had gone with the smoke of the pastille. "That's it," I murmured. "That's how it's blocked out. Go on! Ink it in, man. Ink it in!" Mr. Shaynor returned to broken verse wherein "loveliness" was made to rhyme with a desire to look upon "her empty dress."
Your drink's given him a good sleep, at any rate." Young Mr. Cashell could not catch Mr. Shaynor's face, which was half turned to the advertisement. I stoked the stove anew, for the room was growing cold, and lighted another pastille. Mr. Shaynor in his chair, never moving, looked through and over me with eyes as wide and lustreless as those of a dead hare. "Poole's late," said young Mr.
As inevitable as induction." Still, the other half of my soul refused to be comforted. It was cowering in some minute and inadequate corner at an immense distance. Hereafter, I found myself one person again, my hands still gripping my knees, and my eyes glued on the page before Mr. Shaynor.
I had never raided a chemist's shop before, so I was thorough. We unearthed the pastilles brown, gummy cones of benzoin and set them alight under the toilet-water advertisement, where they fumed in thin blue spirals. "Of course," said Mr. Shaynor, to my question, "what one uses in the shop for one's self comes out of one's pocket.
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.
They flushed the white-tiled floor in gorgeous patches; splashed along the nickel-silver counter-rails, and turned the polished mahogany counter- panels to the likeness of intricate grained marbles slabs of porphyry and malachite. Mr. Shaynor unlocked a drawer, and ere he began to write, took out a meagre bundle of letters.
"But what I want to know is whether we'll succeed in acclimatisin' the blighter, or whether Sir William Gardner's keepers 'll kill 'im before 'e gets accustomed to 'is surroundin's?" Some day, I think, we must go up the Linghurst Road and find out. "WIRELESS" "It's a funny thing, this Marconi business, isn't it?" said Mr. Shaynor, coughing heavily.
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