“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
gangway with a huge bundle of papers in his arms. These he tossed to the Captain’s steward and then, dripping, made his way towards the bridge.
The pilot’s dory slid away from the ship's side, the bell rang once in the engine-room, and the Pavonia surged ahead. Micky, looking out of the window of the wireless house, made a rapid calculation. Those papers would be delivered at once to Captain Ponsonby, who would immediately retire to his room, light a big black cigar, remove his boots, and hold a reading fest. The papers were for the last fourteen days. Ponsonby would begin by hunting through them for the accounts of his own exploit. That might take thirty minutes. It was now a quarter after six, and that would make it six forty-five. Dinner was at seven-thirty, and of course Ponsonby would have to go down the last night of the trip. He always shaved himself and was a slow dresser. No, it was unlikely that the Captain would learn of the murder of Roakby before half after eight or nine o’clock. But he certainly would discover it then and begin to suspect that Micky had held back something from him.
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