“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
“I ’ll exchange with you,” said the Marconi man.
“You ’re an understanding sort of fellow,” continued Graeme. “Maybe we’ll meet again. I hope so.”
“No,” answered Micky. “We shan’t ever meet again. But sometime, when you ’re mining out in Vancouver or farming in Manitoba or trading in the Malay Peninsula, you might look at the name engraved inside my old turnip and drop me a line how you are.”
“Done!” said Graeme.
Each snapped on the other’s timepiece and Micky laid his hands on his friend’s shoulder.
“Now,” said he, “put out your light and follow me up the ladder.”
Graeme turned the switch and, locking the door of his state-room, placed the key in his pocket. No one was on deck. Indeed the night had fallen swiftly and black darkness covered their movements. Micky opened the door of the wireless house stealthily and closed it after them.
“In about two hours,” said he in a whisper, “old Ponsonby will wake up to the fact that
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