“C. Q.” or, In the Wireless House
—lovers actual and prospective, husbands dutifully “exercising” their wives, old folks crawling around the ship and congesting the narrow thoroughfare until those behind turned right about face and retreated in the other direction—everybody trying to stimulate appetites stultified by Scotch breakfasts eaten berthwise at late morning hours, and struggling against that inexplicable tired feeling that accompanies a long liner's slow pitch when running against the sea. He ducked under the upraised arm of the bugler, just beginning the first bar of “Roast Beef of Old England,” made a wry face at him, and then, with supernatural gravity, saluted the Captain.
“You young scamp!” roared the officer. “What do you mean by giving out the press news and letting it be posted on the bulletin-board? Don’t you know this ship does n’t subscribe for it? Look at this thing! I tore it down myself five minutes ago!”
He held out a crumpled sheet of ship’s writing-paper, upon which appeared, in Mrs. Hubert Trevelyan’s obvious chirography, a résumé of the wireless news sent out from Poldhu early that morning. The lady had been13
