“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
amateurs joined in the ha-ha chorus. Really it was a scandal the way those fellows jammed and got in the way. There ought to be aerial regulations and an American board of supervisors.
Then the Brooklyn Navy Yard, which uses a rotary spark gap that whines like a gigantic humming-top, began calling Hatteras. Starting with a low, angry buzz like a militant mosquito, it rose gradually to high G, soaring into the acoustic zone like a rocket, and wailing like a lost soul. Micky always liked to listen to the Navy Yard. It did good clean work.
“HA—HA-HA-NAH“ sent the Navy man. (Hatteras—Brooklyn Navy Yard calling.)
“NAH I-I-I (I ’m here) G A. (Go ahead),“ replied Hatteras.
“HA-AA. MSG (message) CK 11 (check eleven words),“ answered the Yard.
“Waldon Torpedo Destroyer Yellow Jacket Hampton Roads. Report at once Brooklyn Navy Yard for repairs and general overhauling. Seavey. PR-NAH.“
“PR—That ’s Proctor,“ mused Micky.
Hatteras acknowledged the message.
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