“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
Frenchman lay with her nose towards the sea, her lights gleaming, the water pouring from her vents. Graeme took off his coat and waistcoat and held out his hand.
“God bless you!” he whispered.
For the last time Micky turned to ask him a single question—but he did not ask it.
“Good-by,” he answered. “Good luck and God bless you!”
Graeme lowered himself as far as he could oyer the stern and dropped. There was a slight splash. A moment more and Micky could see his head bobbing among the waves as he was carried by the tide towards the Frenchman. Presently he was lost in the darkness.
“Well!” sighed Micky to himself. “That disposes of one of them!”
He folded the coat and waistcoat into as small a bundle as possible and stole back to the wireless house.
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