Mr. Shaynor fed the dispensary stove, and we sucked
cayenne-pepper jujubes and menthol lozenges. 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!
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.
Pages:
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213