“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
The Pavonia had slackened her speed until she was barely making twelve knots an hour, and under the circumstances it was unlikely that she would pick up a pilot before evening, but she kept up a constant whistling in the hope that one might be near by. The passengers, nervous at the delay, tramped up and down the decks or spent hectic hours in their state-rooms endeavoring to conceal recent purchases of underwear, lace or dresses under soiled linen or inside other and more ancient belongings. Each was or had been industriously engaged in attempting to outwit the United States government in its effort to enforce the protective tariff for which two out of every three male passengers had voted indirectly at the last election. Fantine, by her mistress’s instructions made a careful pile of all Lily’s newly acquired Paris creations, together with her hats, gloves and lingerie.
“I ’m going to declare everything I bought!” she had announced convincingly in the morning when the stewardess had brought in the breakfast. “I ’ve given up trying to smuggle things—it ’s no use, and the duty amounts to very little at the most.”
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