“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
their wings ever and anon winking white in the sunlight. To the north a huge freighter running parallel to the Pavonia was proudly breasting the rollers. The breeze was fresh. It was going to be a good day. It was in the air.
At eight bells a white-coated steward came running along the deck and clearing the second-cabin reserve in two leaps bounded up the ladder to the wireless house. He was the Captain’s steward—after the news. Just on the point of shouting indignantly to Micky, he stopped short in the doorway and smiled. The boy was still sleeping the sleep of oblivion, the scrawled copy between his fingers.
“Well, I’m blowed!” he muttered. "Poor little tyke’s pl’yed out! Damned if I ’ll wyke ’im!”
He took the sheet with care from Micky’s fingers and glanced over it hurriedly. What was the use of being the Captain’s steward if you did n’t get something out of it? Then his brow wrinkled.
“Germany not yet replied to France's ultimatum regarding Morocco.—Brother John died this morning.—Shall I sell?”
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