“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
face of the second-class passenger appeared in the port-hole.
“Good morning,” said Micky cheerily. “You gave me quite a start, you know! How on earth did you get out?”
Cloud left the port-hole and came to the door of the state-room. He looked very white and a neat bandage had taken the place of Micky’s improvised one of the night before.
“You forgot the steward,” he said. “I pretended to be asleep, until finally I could n’t keep up the bluff any longer and the chap let himself in from the outside. He did n’t notice that there was n’t any key.”
He held out a lean, muscular hand which Micky clasped firmly.
“How ’s your head?” inquired the latter.
“My head ’s well enough,” returned Cloud. Then, “I ’m afraid I put you to a lot of trouble last night.”
“Not at all! Not at all!” rejoined Micky as if saving people from committing suicide were a daily occurrence with him. “You see the old boat—maybe you remember?—well, the old boat sort of lifted herself at the psychological moment and chucked us in where we be-115
