"Are—you—Peter—Moore?" came the faint scream.
"No, no, no!" shrieked the voluptuous white spark of the Persian Gulf.
"Is—he—on—board?"
"No, no, no!" rapped Peter making no effort to disguise that inimitable sending of his.
"You—are—a—double-barreled liar!" said the Manila spark with vehement emphasis. "No operator on the Pacific has that fist. You might as well try to disguise the color of your eyes!"
Manila tapped his key, making a long series of thoughtful little double dots, the operator's way of letting his listener know he is still on the job, and thinking. Then:
"Why did you leave the Vandalia at Shanghai?"
"I never left the Vandalia anywhere," retorted Peter. "I've just come up from Singapore and Singaraja way. I am taking the Persian Gulf to Hong Kong, and back to Batavia."
"No—you're—not," stated Manila's high-toned spark. "You're going to be pinched as soon as you land in Hong Kong for deserting your ship at Shanghai. That's a secret, for old friendship's sake."
It was now Peter's turn to tap off a singularly long row of little double dots.