“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
sighed, gazing out into the night through the water-stained windows.
“I wish I could help ’em!” he repeated. “And I wish I could do something for Graeme!—Queer fix all around!”
He looked at the alarm clock. It was almost time to take the news from Wellfleet. But first he threw over his mains and called up Morrissy on the Berlin.
“What’s doing?” he asked, when he had aroused the whole seaboard with his shower of “C Q’s” and cut out all the others except the Lloyd.”
“What ’s doing? We have just missed cutting the Saxonia in halves.”
“Don’t say,” returned Morrissy. “We ’re at anchor at quarantine. Fog thick as pea soup. Say, that Roakby story is a corker, is n’t it? The papers are full of it.—By the way, the first game of the World’s Championship series was played to-day and the Athletics batted Matty all over the lot.”
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