“C. Q.” or, In the Wireless House
the port-holes look straight forward and straight aft. As Micky dropped down his ladder, he nearly landed on a tall man in a shabby ulster, the collar of which was turned up so as almost to hide the wearer’s face. A soft hat was drawn down to cover his eyes. The man started and drew back into the shadow.
“I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Micky, who reralled the fact that this particular passenger had come aboard with a few others at Gibraltar.
The man muttered something indistinctly.
“Coming down to lunch?” continued the Marconi man politely. “You ’re at my table, you know—the one on the right as you go in.”
“No, thanks; I ’m not feeling very fit,” replied the other, and, turning, he opened the door of one of the second-class state-rooms and disappeared inside.
Micky shrugged his shoulders.
“Affable!” he remarked to himself. “But rather a swell-looking beggar at that!”
Then he descended to the second-cabin saloon where he and his like belonged.
24
