" 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. Cashell, when I stepped back. "I'll just
send them a call."
He pressed a key in the semi-darkness, and with a rending crackle there
leaped between two brass knobs a spark, streams of sparks, and sparks
again.
"Grand, isn't it? _That's_ the Power--our unknown Power--kicking and
fighting to be let loose," said young Mr. Cashell. "There she goes--kick--
kick--kick into space. I never get over the strangeness of it when I work
a sending-machine--waves going into space, you know. T.R. is our call.
Poole ought to answer with L.L.L."
We waited two, three, five minutes. In that silence, of which the boom of
the tide was an orderly part, I caught the clear "_kiss--kiss--kiss_" of
the halliards on the roof, as they were blown against the installation-
pole.
"Poole is not ready. I'll stay here and call you when he is."
I returned to the shop, and set down my glass on a marble slab with a
careless clink. As I did so, Shaynor rose to his feet, his eyes fixed once
more on the advertisement, where the young woman bathed in the light from
the red jar simpered pinkly over her pearls.
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