operator idly registered the mental decision that cigars such as those were surely of Hondurian make.
"I saw you giving a message to the captain, didn't I?" And again the bellows-like lungs expelled their languid cloud.
"That was not to take on coffee at Puerto Locombia!" answered McKinnon. He delivered himself of this information casually, almost with amusement, though his half-averted eyes were not unconscious of the effect produced by what he had said.
The stranger was suddenly offering him one of the thick, short cigars. A shadow seemed to have lifted from his face.
"I don't smoke," said the ungracious man at the key, seeming to draw back into his shell of reticence. "And I'm busy sending."
"You mean you're actually talking to New York now?" amiably persisted the other. The operator's hand went out to the switch, black against the unpainted boards, and flanked on either side by a fuse.
"I've been tuning for Atlantic City. We're just picking him up," he answered as his fingers hovered over the starting-box lever, clamped to the same pine boards, above the switch. A sudden deep buzzing filled the cabin. It grew louder and louder as the lever crossed
