“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
There was a momentary silence, and then a roar of merriment, while the statesman bowed himself from the platform. Chauffeurs slapped fat thighs and the stewards crowded in the doorways stamped vigorously. Ashurst and the hunting gentleman from Boston stared vacantly before them. But Mrs. Trevelyan laughed heartily and threw a nod to Micky, whose smiling face appeared for a moment at the doorway.
“Edifying!” remarked the bride, with a deprecating shrug and a faint condescending smile.
“Our fellow passenger, Mr. Walter Anderson Savage, has kindly consented to sing ‘Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep’ next,” announced the cork merchant.
A sad-faced, black-bearded man in heavy boots and badly fitting clothes made his way forward. A glance sufficed to show that he was one of those unfortunate persons who regard it as a sacred duty to give pleasure to others by a display of their vocal accomplishments. With his eyes fixed on the ceiling and his hands folded on his abdomen, Mr. Savage52
