“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
lanta had ordered up a case of beer at the other end of the saloon as a counter demonstration. The bunch held no interest for Micky. The simple fact was that they had had a narrow squeak, and he wanted neither a Hallelujah Chorus nor a Drinking Song as a supplement. He saw his Algerian friend calmly smoking a cigarette, and the brown-faced chauffeur devouring a sandwich. They were all right. Cloud was not to be seen,—he was in his room, probably, unless he ’d tried to swim off to the Saxonia,—a reckless and entirely improbable supposition. And Bennett could n’t get away. Micky left the saloon intending to go back to his office, smoke a pipe and then turn in.
As he made the corner of the deck-house, however, a small figure emerged from one of the passageways and caught his arm. It was the Bennett girl.
“Oh, Mr. Fitzpatrick!” she cried. “I ’m so frightened! Is there any danger?”
“No, of course not!” he answered cheerily. “We had a close shave, but it ’s all over now! She ’s two miles behind us by this time.”
“O—” she began. Then suddenly she gave way and began to sob pitifully.
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