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Updated: May 20, 2025
The brutal east wind had cleared the streets, and the few passers-by were muffled to their puckered eyes. In the Italian warehouse next door some gay feathered birds and game, hung upon hooks, sagged to the wind across the left edge of our window-frame. "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!
Cashell was adjusting some wire that crackled from time to time with the tense, knuckle-stretching sound of the electric spark. Upstairs, where a door shut and opened swiftly, I could hear his uncle coughing abed. "Here," I said, when the drink was properly warmed, "take some of this, Mr. Shaynor." He jerked in his chair with a start and a wrench, and held out his hand for the glass.
From head to heel he shook shook from the marrow of his bones outwards then leaped to his feet with raised arms, and slid the chair screeching across the tiled floor where it struck the drawers behind and fell with a jar. Mechanically, I stooped to recover it. As I rose, Mr. Shaynor was stretching and yawning at leisure. "I've had a bit of a doze," he said. "How did I come to knock the chair over?
Shaynor came down from the North his assistants had by no means agreed with Mr. Cashell. "They forget," said he, "that, first and foremost, the compounder is a medicine-man. On him depends the physician's reputation. He holds it literally in the hollow of his hand, Sir." 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.
You look rather " "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!
Shaynor, returning to the professional tone, "but if you will wait two minutes, I'll make it up for you, madam." I had used the shop for some time, and my acquaintance with the proprietor had ripened into friendship. It was Mr.
He looked through the door at Shaynor breathing lightly in his chair. "Poor beast! And he wants to keep company with Fanny Brand." "Fanny who?" I said, for the name struck an obscurely familiar chord in my brain something connected with a stained handkerchief, and the word "arterial." "Fanny Brand the girl you kept shop for."
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.
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.
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