“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
“WA — WA— Thanks. GB. MPH—MF,” said Mickey.
There was an unexpected diminution of speed and the engines of the Pavonia stopped. Through the mist appeared a row of yellow lights. Beyond could be seen the feeble ray of a search-light creeping here and there around the zenith.
“Quarantine!” cried Micky. “It’s now or never!”
There was a thunder of running chains, a thud, a roar—and the Pavonia was still. Suddenly he snatched up the receivers and placed them at his ears. A second or two more and the blue flashes leaped in showers across his spark gap.
“Do you see those lights?” he whispered in running comment. “Over there to starboard? That ’s the Patrie—French Liner—bound for Algiers. Operator is a friend of mine—Gaston Bruyere. She ’s waiting for the tide to turn and the fog to lift. To-morrow she ’ll be three hundred miles on her way to Africa. What do you say? Will you try it?”
“How can I get aboard?” asked Graeme.
“Wait a minute!”
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