“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
should pass each other some time during the evening.
Now as he threw on his mains his “C Q” caught Cape Cod, the Berlin just entering the narrows, and a dozen or so other ingoing and outgoing liners, including the Saxonia. He passed the time of day and the weather with all of them. In every case the answer was the same,—fog like cheese from Cape Sable to Hatteras,—had been for two days. And before he knew it Micky found that the Pavonia had herself plunged into the bank and had slackened her speed.
Then came the deluge. At first a spatter and skurry on the top of the deck-house, then a prolonged roll as from a hundred snare drums,—and then, the rain really came, sweeping in steady sheets against the windows, lashing the top of the deck-house into a dancing frog pond, rattling and shaking his windows and driving a steady stream of water under the tightly closed door.
“Sufferin’ ducks!” he whistled. “This is some water,—what?”
The wireless house shook with the wind, for it stood alone exposed to the full blast of the207
