A third time the philosopher wiped the perspiration from his excited, ruddy face.
‘I hadn’t meant to listen long,’ he continued, waving the poker desperately in the air. ‘And I wouldn’t have done, only I heard old Hieronimus, the astronomer of Arles, talking about my theory of atmosphere and light. He is no fool, is Hieronimus of Arles—usually. And so I was tempted, and listened on and on. I couldn’t understand or explain how it was being done. But I wondered if some day scientists would come to look on this as an everyday, usual thing—a voice speaking across hundreds of leagues from one man to another, with nothing connecting them but the common air between. Well, there they were: Hieronimus discussing my work with two charlatan quacks who clearly considered themselves learned doctors of high degree. This theory of air and light, mark you, I had spent years of work on, and had set it forth fully in my last book. I know I am right. I can prove it. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could have talked back to them through the shell. But there I had to sit, hearing them chatter and twaddle on, getting farther and farther from the real truth all the time. Again and again I laid the shell aside and tried to work. But all the time I found I was arguing with them in my mind and mixing my chemicals and figures into a hopeless jumble. And I kept going back to listen for some more—like a half-wit. The result is, I haven’t done a stroke of decent work since you left. You’re just in time to save me from going completely crazy. Take it away now. Ah, what a relief it’ll be to have it out of reach! Take it, quick, before the wretched thing gets hot again. I can’t trust myself. I should have known better—So should Hieronimus. Get out, my dears. Good-bye!’
So great was the philosopher’s haste to be rid of them, that Giles and Anne found themselves bundled like potatoes out upon the turf before the door.
On the way home they consoled themselves by gathering the blackberries that now grew, plentiful and ripe, on the heath that covered the hills. They had had more than enough of the Whispering Shell for the present and did not speak of it again till they reached the town.
Passing through the market-place they were hailed by Luke the Lame Boy.
‘What’s the matter?’ he cried. ‘Such glum faces—and all covered in blackberry juice! Why so sad?’
Then Anne, remembering Agnes’s great trust in this lad, told him how they had a shell which let you hear what people were saying about you. And Giles broke in to explain how they had tried it on two people and neither of them wanted to keep it. And Anne told Giles not to interrupt and went on with what she had to say.
‘You see, Luke, one of these people didn’t have anyone talking about him; and the other had folks talking about him no end, but the things they said upset him and kept him from doing his work.’
‘Look, Luke,’ said Giles. ‘Here is the shell. Isn’t it a beauty?’
The lame boy looked down at the green thing shining and flashing in Giles’s hand. Then he turned away with a shrug.