Ellins with his batty remarks.
The only thing that appears to bother Dudley at all about bein' cut off
this way from the world in general is the lack of a stock ticker
aboard. Seems he'd loaded up with a certain war baby before sailing
and while the deal wouldn't either make or break him, he had a sportin'
interest in which way the market was waverin'.
"Well, how do you guess Consolidated Munitions closed yesterday?" I
asks.
Dudley shakes his head mournful.
"I dreamed last night of seeing a flock of doves," says he. "That's a
bad sign. I'd give a dollar for a glimpse at a morning paper."
"They say Charleston's only a couple hundred miles off there," says I.
"If it wasn't so soggy walkin' I'd run in and get you one."
"No," says he; "you'd be late for breakfast. I wonder if our wireless
man couldn't get in touch with some of the shore stations."
"Sure he could," says I, "but don't let on what stock you're plungin'
on. His name's Meyers. He's a hyphen, you know. And if he got wise
to your havin' war-baby shares he'd likely hold out on you. But you
might jolly him into gettin' a general quotation list. I'd stick
around this forenoon if I was you."
"By Jove!" says J. Dudley. "I will."
And maybe you know how welcome any new way of killin' time can be when
you're out on a boat with nothin' doin' but three or four calls to grub
a day.
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