“C. Q.” or, In the Wireless House
you understan’—for nuthin’, with a sou each day for tobacco. They are the bravest men dans tout le monde! For they care nuthin’ for their lives. They no more fear than the Mohammedan. Kismet! No one can stand against them. I have known in the ranks the sons of American millionaires—c’est vrai!—princes of Russie, noblemen of Oesterreich, and priests that were but are no longer within the Church—fugitives from justice from every country in the world, men of broken heart, chevaliers d’industrie—” He shrugged his shoulders. “Rascals, you say, perhaps, but gentilhommes d’honneur. Ah, the petites histoires I have heard them tell around the camp-fire and at the hospital of ‘Les Isles d’Hyeres’— the ‘Golden Isles.’”
A shadow fell across the table, and he paused in his recital as the empty chair was filled. The man in the ulster had entered unobserved, and now took his seat unobtrusively. Evidently he had changed his mind about coming down to lunch. It was his first appearance at table during the voyage, but Micky knew that his name was Cloud—since the chair was thus assigned. It was obvious that he had over-28
