“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
“Don’t mention it, old chap!” chirped Micky. “We all make asses of ourselves occasionally. Now I ’ve got to deliver a few radios, but I ’ll see you at lunch and maybe tonight you will come up and smoke a pipe with me?”
Cloud nodded and kept on fumbling with the key, while Micky, glad to escape, and fully confident that, for the time being at least, any danger of the attempt being repeated was over, hastened away to the purser’s office with his Marconigrams—among them the one for Mrs. Trevelyan.
The purser looked suspiciously at him as he shoved the yellow slips under the grating, but Micky wore an air of entire unconcern.
“A little slow in transmission,” said the Marconi man casually, “but the fact is I was done up and slept right through until this minute. However, I ’ve dated ’em all this a. m. And anyhow nobody can get off this bloomin’ boat a minute sooner than New York,—that’s sure!”
The purser gave him a look of disgust.
“By Gad, you ’re a rum ’un!” he remarked fiercely, although Micky was a perennial joy to118
