“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
reached the door of Cloud’s state-room. Quite out of breath, he dropped him flat outside while he entered the stuffy little room, turned on the electric light and poured out a basin of water. Than he ran up his ladder, fished a bottle of brandy from his locker, and descended again to where Cloud was lying. His one present fear was that the watch might notice what was doing, or that some steward might be loafing about for a last pipe before turning in, and report the matter, for he felt a fierce determination to protect his property rights in Cloud at all costs,—the man was his and should remain so.
He lifted Cloud’s head as gently as he could and let a few drops of the brandy slide down his throat. Then he dampened a towel, bathed his forehead and wiped off the blood. The man gave a groan and opened his eyes. For an instant he gazed stupidly at Micky—then:
“What ’s the matter?” he asked quietly.
“Hit your bloomin’ nut,” answered Micky lightly. “Lie still a minute and then we ’ll tumble off to beddie!”
Cloud closed his eyes wearily.
“Have ‘a wee doc and doris’?” urged his83
