“On its own account.”
“Then let’s see if I’ve got it correctly. Miles off, at Poole, or wherever it is——”
“It will be anywhere in ten years.”
“You’ve got a charged wire——”
“Charged with Hertzian waves which vibrate, say, two hundred and thirty million times a second.” Mr. Cashell snaked his forefinger rapidly through the air.
“All right—a charged wire at Poole, giving out these waves into space. Then this wire of yours sticking out into space—on the roof of the house—in some mysterious way gets charged with those waves from Poole——”
“Or anywhere—it only happens to be Poole tonight.”
“And those waves set the coherer at work, just like an ordinary telegraph-office ticker?”
“No! That’s where so many people make the mistake. The Hertzian waves wouldn’t be strong enough to work a great heavy Morse instrument like ours. They can only just make that dust cohere, and while it coheres (a little while for a dot and a longer while for a dash) the current from this battery—the home battery”—he laid his hand on the thing—“can get through to the Morse printing-machine to record the dot or dash. Let me make it clearer. Do you know anything about steam?”
“Very little. But go on.”