“Just that. Their transmitters are all right, but their receivers are out of order, so they only get a dot here and a dash there. Nothing clear.” “Why is that?” “God knows—and Science will know to-morrow. Perhaps the induction is faulty; perhaps the receivers aren’t tuned to receive just the number of vibrations per second that the transmitter sends. Only a word here and there. Just enough to tantalise.” Again the Morse sprang to life. “That’s one of ’em complaining now. Listen: ‘_Disheartening—most disheartening_.’ It’s quite pathetic. Have you ever seen a spiritualistic seance? It reminds me of that sometimes—odds and ends of messages coming out of nowhere—a word here and there—no good at all.” “But mediums are all impostors,” said Mr. Shaynor, in the doorway, lighting an asthma-cigarette. “They only do it for the money they can make. I’ve seen ’em.” “Here’s Poole, at last—clear as a bell. L.L.L. _Now_ we sha’n’t be long.” Mr. Cashell rattled the keys merrily. “Anything you’d like to tell ’em?” “No, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ll go home and get to bed. I’m feeling a little tired.” THE ARMY OF A DREAM SONG OF THE OLD GUARD “And thou shalt make a candlestick of pure gold of beaten work shall the candlestick be made: his shaft and its branches, his bowls, his knops, and his flowers, shall be the same. “And there shall be a knop under two branches of the same, and a knop under two branches of the same, and a knop under two branches of the same, according to the six branches that proceed out of the candlestick. Their knops and their branches shall be the same.”—_Exodus._ “Know this, my brethren, Heaven is clear And all the clouds are gone— The Proper Sort shall flourish now, Good times are coming on”— The evil that was threatened late To all of our degree, Hath passed in discord and debate, And, _Hey then up go we!_ A common people strove in vain To shame us unto toil, But they are spent and we remain, And we shall share the spoil According to our several needs As Beauty shall decree, As Age ordains or Birth concedes, And, _Hey then up go we!_ And they that with accursed zeal Our Service would amend, Shall own the odds and come to heel Ere worse befall their end For though no naked word be wrote Yet plainly shall they see What pinneth Orders to their coat, And, _Hey then up go we!_ Our doorways that, in time of fear, We opened overwide Shall softly close from year to year Till all be purified; For though no fluttering fan be heard Nor chaff be seen to flee— The Lord shall winnow the Lord’s Preferred— And, _Hey then up go we!_ Our altars which the heathen brake Shall rankly smoke anew, And anise, mint, and cummin take Their dread and sovereign due, Whereby the buttons of our trade Shall all restored be With curious work in gilt and braid, And, _Hey then up go we!_