“C. Q.” or, In the Wireless House
of damp table-linen, of Castile soap, onions, oxalic acid, and warm upholstery. The string band was trying to be heard above the clatter of dishes, valiantly sawing out, “Oh, You Beautiful Doll,” and the stewards were fighting for places around the scullery windows, giving each other the lie in polite cockney with ”Oh, I s’y, I ’m first there now, Denby!” and “You swine, you took my plyte! Give it ’ere, now!”
Inside the saloon, three hundred passengers were beginning to gorge stomachs, which should have been left entirely alone with canned caviare, Scotch broth, boiled cod, celery, radishes, English mutton chops,—pheasant, sir, with the ’ead steward’s compliments,—Tipsy pudding, Neapolitan ice-cream, assorted cakes, grapes, bananas, and coffee, washed down with heavy draughts of Apollinaris water. The great event of the day was in full progress.
Micky winked at the purser as he slid by the latter’s grating.
“No more news!” he grinned. “Cap’n’s orders!”
“The deuce you say!” muttered, the rat-faced financier, and went on unconcernedly counting up neat piles of half-crowns.
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