“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
storm. Small cataracts began to flow down from the window-sills, and a leak appeared in the ceiling and an uninterrupted trickle poured from it upon his dressing-table. Yes, it was a dirty night.
“H-n-n-n-n-n-n!” went the hoarse voice of the fog horn, in a suspiration lasting for several seconds, but which in the fury of the gale sounded dim and distant to Micky. How far could it penetrate on such a night?
“MSA de MPA,” he snapped out on his instrument. “Do you get my signals?”
He waited amid the riot of wind and water for the faint response.
“MPA de MSA—Your signals are weak. How are you?”
“MSA de MPA,” he answered. “Doing nicely, thank you. Running now at half speed on account of fog. Can you hear our whistle?”
“MPA de MSA,” replied the Saxonia. “Cannot hear your whistle or anything else. Too much noise. We are running at half speed also.”
At that moment another boat—the Washington, cut in.
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