It's a fine tribute to our profession."
"I don't know," said young Mr. Cashell, with icy politeness, opening the
door one half-inch, "if you still happen to be interested in our trifling
experiments. 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. 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. "'_M.M.V. M.M.V.
Signals unintelligible. Purpose anchor Sandown Bay. Examine instruments
to-morrow.'_ Do you know what that means? It's a couple of men-o'-war
working Marconi signals off the Isle of Wight. They are trying to talk to
each other. Neither can read the other's messages, but all their messages
are being taken in by our receiver here. They've been going on for ever so
long. I wish you could have heard it."
"How wonderful!" I said.
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