“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
you are on board. Of course he knows you ’re Cosmo Graeme. Mrs. Trevelyan’s responsible for that. Then he ’ll probably search the ship. I ’ve got to keep you out of the way until you can swim for it, and that won’t be until we ’re off Fire Island.”
Behind the bunk was a narrow closet, totally concealed when the door of the wireless house was open, and amply large enough to contain a human being standing.
“I won’t turn on the lights,” said Micky, “and even if any one comes up there is n’t a chance in a hundred of his finding you. You can sit on the bunk, and hide in the closet, if we hear anybody on the ladder.”
Micky sat down at his desk and put the receivers to his ears. Instantly he found himself in the midst of a babel of sound. Within fifty miles from New York at nine o’clock at night the ocean is as noisy as a department store. Everybody is working all along the coast from Hatteras to Glace Bay, including the five hundred amateurs inhabiting New York City, most of whom can send but few of whom can read. Thus if they jam no one can explain to them what trouble they are making for everybody236
