The Nymph and the Lamp

  “He screwed down his key to the least possible working gap and he zipped those messages at our hero in bunches of ten, going a blue streak. Clinnett—the wonder boy—was sweating blood inside five minutes. He couldn’t use the station typewriter because the signals weren’t loud enough, so it was pencil and pad, with a duplicate to be made for every message, a carbon sheet to be whipped into place for each new message, and the completed messages to be torn off and marked with the time of receipt—and all that with the German sailing straight on at about thirty words a minute. I know, because I was here in the room and so was Matt, and we plugged in to hear the German’s side of the game. The air was quiet. You could sense dozens of other chaps, ship and shore, listening in—because everyone knew what was up.

  “At the end of the fourth or fifth group Clinnett had to ask for a repeat—a signature here, a word or two there. At the end of the seventh he was asking for whole phrases. You could fairly see the German grinning. And then it came, a curt little service message in perfect English, addressed to the O-in-C, Marina, demanding ‘Please use capable operator.’ There was dead silence in the phones for a moment, and then you could hear ships up and down the coast piping ‘Hi-hi-hi’—the signal for a laugh. And the laugh was on us, on Marina, you see. Matt was furious, with Clinnett as much as the Hun.”

  “What happened?” Isabel asked.

  “Matt took over the watch himself, tapping out ‘O.I.C. here’ in his slow way and telling the Hun to go on with his messages in groups of ten. By that time everyone on the coast had stopped to listen, for they all knew Carney’s fist—and they knew what was coming next. A lot of smart ship ops have been fooled by that fist of Matt’s. They think they’ve got a slow chum at the other end of the line and they screw down their keys and try to roast him. Well, Matt’s been in this game so long that the code’s his native language—he thinks in dots and dashes. And nothing bothers him—interference, static, speed—nothing. He can read the stuff by instinct, and faster than any human hand could send it. Everyone on the coast knew that, but the German didn’t and away he went like greased lightning with his next ten messages.

  “At the end of them Matt gave him ‘R’ for the lot, and added ‘Send faster.’ The German zipped off another group; and again Matt said ‘Send faster.’ The Hun was good, mind you; he was sending as fast as any man could go. But he couldn’t keep up that pace. His wrist was getting tired. When he tried to cram on a bit more speed it was fatal. He began to make mistakes, falling all over himself, going back and repeating. Another group, and Matt cracked off, in that same slow fist, mind you, ‘Send much faster. Have other traffic to clear.’ There was a pause, and the German came on again, going at a terrific rate. But when he got to the third or fourth message in the group he stumbled badly, went back and repeated, zipped on for a bit, and stumbled again.

  “At the end of the group it was rather pitiful—like watching a good penman ruin his fist by trying to write too fast. And of course there was nothing the German could do or say about the speed—he was dealing with a shore station, and a shore station in its own official range is practically the Almighty; its word is law. By the time he got to his twelfth group the Hun was stumbling and fumbling, making a stuttering mess of it; and then Matt put an end to it, tapping out in his calm way, slow and merciless like the cold wrath of God, ‘Use recognized code or get someone who can.’

  “You should have heard the chorus in the phones—every op in the area snickering out ‘Hi-hi-hi.’ Even Clinnett laughed, standing there beside Matt with a pair of phones plugged in. And then in the silence before the German’s junior op came on again, sending at Matt’s own rate, a bit over twenty, no more, Matt got out of the chair and motioned Clinnett towards the pencil and the message pads. ‘Take over,’ he said. ‘And after this don’t act the damned fool at my key.’ Can’t you hear him saying that?”

  “Yes,” Isabel said, “My key, my station, my island—they’re all his, really, aren’t they? How that would touch his pride! But it all sounds a bit childish, if you’ll forgive me—like a lot of little boys showing off and giggling in a crowded room. I thought this was a serious business.”

  Skane grinned. “It is, most of the time. That’s why we like a bit of fun now and then.”

  “Something to do!”

  He glanced at her curiously. “You don’t like that expression, do you?”

  “No. But I’m beginning to see the point. That’s why I want to be able to do twenty-five on that key.”

  He chuckled, “Anyone would think you intend to take a watch.”

  “Well, why not? Suppose one of you got sick, or what’s more likely, suppose you fell off a pony one of these days and broke your arm?”

  Skane slipped the phone over his free ear, listened a moment, and made an entry in the log. “That’s happened before—a chap sick, I mean. Happens on every station from time to time. The other two simply stand watch-and-watch—six hours on, six off—till the fellow’s better, or till the boat brings a relief operator. It’s a bit tough but after all a man might as well be on watch as twiddling his thumbs about the shack.”

  “It would be awful to depend on a woman for anything important, wouldn’t it?” she said scornfully. And then in a persuasive voice, “Let me put it another way. Look at the life you men lead. Sometimes two of you can get away for a walk or a ride or a duck-shoot together; but usually one man’s on watch, one’s sleeping, and the other’s at a loose end. If he goes out, he goes alone. Don’t you see what I mean? Each of you lives in a frightful solitude.”

  “Not Matt.”

  “Even Matthew. A man wants companionship of his own kind. I see that plainly now. Have you noticed Matthew lately? He’s become awfully dull. He goes out for a walk now and then, but never for long. He used to fairly live outdoors—he’s told me that; and I know how he used to love walking the beach at night, especially in storms. He never does that any more. I’ve offered to walk with him but he knows I hate the wind when it’s cold. Don’t you see, Greg, if I could take a watch now and then, you three could go off together for hours. You could visit Main Station, West Light, Number Two, Number Three—you could see other faces, hear other voices, and apart from all that you could enjoy each other as you’ve never been able to do before.”

  She leaned towards him eagerly and put a hand on his arm. For a time Skane did not reply. His hard blue gaze was directed past the receiving apparatus to the window, to the whirl of sand about the butt of the mast.

  “And what about you?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t matter.”

  “I’m afraid you would.”

  “You mean I’d be the lonely one? Ah, but think how important I’d feel—running the show myself! If you only knew how I long to do something that matters.”

  “You’re Carney’s wife. Doesn’t that matter?”

  “Yes, but that’s only one part of my life, and his.”

  “You get our meals. You’re the most important person on the station. You should have heard Vedder.”

  She drew her hand away sharply. “Oh, you’re impossible!”

  Skane turned. “I didn’t mean to be insulting. I was trying to convey—in poorly chosen words, I’m afraid—how much we appreciate your presence here.”

  “You thought I was a nuisance when I came,” she retorted.

  “Yes,” he admitted. And then, slowly, “May I ask how you know?”

  She laughed. “It was written all over you.”

  He resumed his stare out of the window and she saw his lips tighten.

  “I thought Carney had no business to bring you here. I still think that. Don’t ask me to explain. And now I hear MSU calling, offering P.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  He grimaced. “Aquitania with a lot of mushy sentiments, mostly from ladies of the stage and screen, addressed to all the fools and knaves from London to Los Angeles.” He settled the message pads before him, placed a pair of sharp pencils beside them, and threw the transmitt
ing switch. In the engine room the trumpet blared, and amid that brazen music Isabel arose and went back to the apartment.

  CHAPTER 19

  On the afternoon before Christmas, Giswell drove up in his buggy, with young Sara on the seat beside him. He thundered on the apartment door and walked in. Matthew lay on the couch smoking and watching Isabel prepare a plum pudding. The smiling little man, reddened by the cold, threw on the kitchen table a pair of chickens, plucked and cleaned. They had frozen on the journey from Number Three and they fell like blocks of wood.

  “There’s your Christmas dinner!”

  Isabel turned, throwing out floury hands in a gesture of pleasure, and Matthew arose from the couch murmuring thanks.

  “How wonderful!” Isabel cried. “I was afraid I’d have to serve tinned meat. Do take off your things and sit down. How’s everything at Number Three?”

  Giswell took off his wool cap but remained by the door. “Can’t stay—the pony’s warm from the drive and I don’t want to leave him standing long. Besides, I’ve got to get back. The wind’s come east again and there’s a smell of snow—a blizzard if I know the signs. Family’s well, thank you kindly.”

  “Where’s Sara?” Carney said.

  “Oh, Sara, she went around to talk to Skane.”

  “But Skane’s gone to Main Station for an hour at the piano.”

  “Oh? Well she’ll amuse herself with Sargent then. When a gal puts on skirts to drive eight mile on a winter day t’ain’t to talk to folks like you and me.” He addressed Isabel. “Funny thing, Ma’am, ever since you come these wireless fellers seem to stay close to home. Ain’t seen ’em much since fall.”

  “Is that a compliment?” she asked dubiously.

  “Don’t know a better!” Giswell roared. “Makes a difference havin’ a woman about a place. Once in a long time Miz Giswell she gits a notion to go off on the boat and visit with her relations over on the main. Means she’s gone three-four months and we all git restless as bears, wanderin’ about for somethin’ to do. Once she gits back we hardly want to stir outside the door. Now you take Matt and Skane and Sargent, aforetime they was always walkin’ or ridin’ down to see us at Number Three, or to Number Two or Main Station or West Light; now and again one of ’em would take a notion to ride all the way down east to Number Four, or even East Light. Don’t see ’em doin’ that no more. That’s you, Ma’am, nothin’ else. Why don’t you git Matt or one o’ the others to borrow McBain’s buggy and drive you down to see us, once in a while? Looks like that’s the only way we’ll ever git to see anybody from the wireless station now.”

  “I shall,” she promised, “as soon as the weather improves. I’m afraid I’ve got lazy since the cold weather came. I’ve not been outside the door for a month, except to go along the boardwalk to the watch room.”

  Giswell grinned. “Ah, you’ll toughen up, Ma’am, by and by. You’ll git so you’ve got to hear the sound of another woman’s voice, and the tellyphone won’t do. Women likes society. You come and see us, and we’ll git Miz Nightingale over from Number Four, and prob’ly Miz Shelman from East Light, and you can all have a wunnerful jabber together, You git on with that puddin’, Ma’am. I’ll talk to Matt a bit.” Isabel returned to her baking and Matthew and Giswell drifted into a typical island conversation—the weather, the thickness of the lagoon ice, the state of the wild ponies, and duck-hunting yarns going back through the years. At length Giswell departed, carrying with him a gift of Carney’s tobacco. He went along the boardwalk and rapped on the watch room window, and in a moment his daughter emerged from the porch and climbed into the buggy beside him.

  Matthew and Isabel threw open their door and called farewells. The girl favored Carney with a quick dark smile, but when she turned her gaze to Isabel the smile vanished. She gave Carney’s woman a slow look up and down, acknowledged her greeting with a nod, and then Giswell flicked the reins and they drove off.

  “I don’t think that young lady likes me,” Isabel said, shutting the door.

  “Just shy, don’t you think?”

  “She’s bold enough with Sargent and Skane.”

  “Ah well, she knows them better; and they’re young men. It makes a difference.”

  “Apparently,”’ she rejoined primly, and went on with her cooking.

  By Giswell’s favor the Christmas dinner was a famous affair of roast chicken with bread and sage stuffing, cranberry sauce, potatoes, turnip and parsnip. For dessert there was mince pie (the mincemeat out of a tin, one of the luxuries enjoyed by the wireless station) and plum pudding with candy sauce. Practice in cookery had developed in Isabel an instinctive skill which she fortified with a careful reading of Vedder’s old book whenever something special was in the making.

  Skane was on watch when they sat down to eat. Isabel was touched to find that Matthew had ordered and received by the autumn boat a pair of soft bedroom slippers for her, which he now presented. And Sargent had saved out of his parcel from home a box of chocolates which he produced, painstakingly wrapped in tissue and tied with a ribbon he had got from Mrs. McBain. For her part she had received on the boat some skeins of colored wool, and in leisure hours she had knitted a pair of mittens for each of them, red for Matthew, green for Sargent and blue for Skane.

  When they had finished their coffee Sargent withdrew for an afternoon walk to Main Station and Carney went along the boardwalk to relieve Skane. Isabel stepped into the bedroom and repowdered her nose, touched her hair here and there, and smoothed the gray silk frock which she reserved for “best” and had put on for the occasion. She came into the kitchen as Skane appeared. He wore the old shabby uniform but she observed that he had got his hair cut and that he was freshly shaved. He greeted her politely, wishing her a merry Christmas, and in an offhand way passed her a package wrapped in tissue. Within she felt something round and hard. She removed the paper swiftly and took forth a photograph of Skane and Matthew in a wooden frame shaped, painted and furnished with beckets of cord to represent a miniature ship’s lifebuoy. It was made to be hung by one of the beckets and on the white circumference Skane had painted in neat black letters MARINA ISLAND RADIO, CHRISTMAS, 1920.

  “Actually,” he informed her, “the picture was taken two years ago. The female creature in the middle used to stick out of the sand down by Main Station. The figurehead of a French barque named Clélie that piled up on the east bar forty or fifty years ago. She’s rather a good bit of carving, don’t you think?”

  “She’s rather—opulent,” Isabel observed. “And she looks as if she’d just taken a bath in her nightie.”

  “Well,” said Skane, busy with his dinner, “wasn’t Clélie the Roman girl who swam the Tiber to get away from the Etruscans?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid I never was much good at Roman history.”

  He smiled. “Same here. By the way, this chicken is awfully good. The only reason I remember the tale is because in my student days I was rather interested in French translation, and I got hold of one or two seventeenth-century novels by Mademoiselle de Scudéry, including Clélie. Mam’selle was very decorous and her heroes and heroines were a stuffy lot. She used to skitter very carefully about the edges of their love affairs. In Clélie I remember she described the River of Inclination winding its way down from the hills and watering the villages of Billets Doux, Petits Soins, and a lot of other rot. Very good picture of Matt, isn’t it?”

  “It’s awfully good of you, too. I shall treasure this. Did you make the frame yourself?”

  “Yes. The idea’s not very original but I thought it would make a souvenir for your wall. The wood’s from a piece of wreck timber I picked up on the beach.”

  “I’d like to see Clélie. You must show me her some day when we’re down that way.”

  “I’m afraid she’s gone. She toppled over in a storm a few months after that picture was taken, and then we got an unusual succession of nor’east winds and a big dune moved over and buried her. Mam’selle de Scudéry could have written
a whole novel about that—the Tempest in the Desert, and the millions of grains of sand hustling in to cover poor Clélie’s modesty.”

  They laughed together. “I’m afraid you’re a cynic,” Isabel said. “Here’s your plum pudding—hard sauce by courtesy of Vedder’s cook book. I’ll have a cup of coffee with you for company. You haven’t opened my present.”

  Skane unwrapped the mittens and looked up. “Just what I wanted!”

  “That’s what you’re supposed to say, anyway. I made the same for all of you. There’s one comfort about knitting mittens, you don’t have to worry much about size.”

  “They’re very nicely made,” he observed handsomely. He stirred his coffee and offered her a cigarette. Isabel took one, and Skane struck a match on his boot and held it for her. As she leaned forward with the cigarette between her lips their eyes met in the curious intimacy of the rite and there was an odd little silence. Something in the quality of Skane’s gaze set a pulse beating in her throat. For a moment she forgot the cigarette. That old silly habit of flushing over trifles, over nothing, suddenly possessed her. She was startled and annoyed. The warm blood spread beneath her skin from throat to temples, and there was nothing she could do about it. She fixed her attention on the cigarette. She drew on the thing with several unsteady puffs and turned away murmuring “Thanks,” and staring out of the window with a quite false air of interest as if the sight of her own small washing, a few silken things waving gaily in the cold breeze from the sea, were something she had never seen before.