“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
Trevelyan. However, that’s all behind us.”
Cloud looked at him inquiringly.
“You heard all we said?”
“Yes, I think so,” answered Micky lightly. “Of course none of it is my business, so long as you don’t try to deprive us of your company! She ’s a very circumspect lady, Mrs. Trevelyan! But take it from me, there ’s no place on an ocean liner to discuss private matters except on the end of the bowsprit or in the crow’s nest! Even there some old woman from Putney would probably get on to what you were saying by reading your lips.”
He handed Cloud the key to the state-room. Cloud received it without comment, his innate English distaste for any display of emotion struggling with his genuine gratitude to Micky. Turning his back he put the key into the lock and, as he fumbled with it, he jerked out awkwardly a few disconnected phrases that contained among others the words:
“Awfully obliged—what you did last night. Really did n’t know what I was doing.—Never forget it.—Must think me a damn coward. Try to explain it all some time.—Feeluig down and out.”
117
