“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
he quite forgot the Captain. His own back was lame and his muscles felt stiff and creaky. He must get right after Cloud; there was no question about that.
“Whew!” he whiffed as he threw open the forward window. “Smells like a chemist’s!” He stooped laboriously and gathered the scattered sheets, noticing the absence of the draft he had prepared for the Captain’s use. Perhaps Mrs. Trevelyan had swiped it. Then with a feeling of relief his eye caught the jottings he had made of the news from Poldhu and the Roakby affair. Lucky that hadn't been stolen while he slept,—and yet, if Mrs. Trevelyan had been up there, no doubt she had read it and by this time it was all over the ship! No—she was Cloud’s friend. Of course she wouldn’t give him away! Or would she! Perhaps she had gone directly to Cloud himself and taxed him with it. Anyhow he must get busy and look after his prisoner of war.
He brushed his hair—the hair that something had touched—in front of his cracked sixpenny mirror, straightened his collar and tie and swabbed his face and hands with the cor-113
