“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
“Great hrxcitement, sir!” said Dobson, jauntily. “Our table’s drawn the grand prize in the lottery!”
“So I hear!” answered Micky. “What have they done with him?”
“Locked ’im hup in ’is state-room,” replied the steward. “The girl ’s gone clean off her ’ead. Poor little thing!”
“Too bad! Too bad!” acquiesced Micky, who hated to see anybody in misfortune. “Be sure and take her a nice lunch, Dobson. She ’ll need it—and Bennett too.”
He left the table and glanced up and down the deck for any sight of Graeme, but the latter was not to be discerned, and he ascended again to the wireless house to smoke an after-breakfast pipe and ponder on the new complications in his little floating world. The Post and The Pink ’Un still lay where Binks had thrown them on the bunk. Outside the sun was radiating a fierce glare from the white paint. The wireless house was cool and shady. He put his feet on the operating desk and took up his favorite weekly. With interest he read.
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