“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
“No, you don’t!” remarked the cabby. “Me an’ you will go along together.”
“Oh, very well,” answered bis fare. “Come on. Perhaps sometime you ’ll want to take a state-room on the boat.”
They climbed the stairs to the upper story, passed the watchman who looked suspiciously at the shabby fellow carrying his whip in his hand and thence ascended the gang-plank to the Pavoina.
“This way, my friend,” said Micky, leading him to the purser’s office.
The rat faced purser was hard at work at his accounts and did not look up at his visitor’s approach.
“Hello there, old chap!” called Micky through the grating. “Come over here a minute like a good fellow; I want to speak to you.”
“Wait a minute, Micky,” answered the other meditatively still counting,—“and nine is sixty-seven.” He wrote it down, stuck the pencil behind his ear and stepped to the window. “What do you want—money?”
“Yes,” said Micky. “Among other things.”
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