"Mr. Mostyn."
"Sir?"
"Did you by any chance use the owner's code-book during the middle watch?"
"No, sir."
"Very good; carry on."
This was the brief conversation between the Captain and the Wireless Officer. The Old Man had by some unaccountable intuition fostered the idea that the code-book was the object of the intruder's presence. Mostyn had a right to make use of it, and, before probing deeper into the problem, Captain Bullock had questioned him.
The skipper had a keen insight into human nature. In his official capacity he had come into contact with hundreds, nay thousands, of human beings for whose safety and welfare he, under Providence, was responsible. Some were notables, the majority common-place individuals, and not a few persons with unenviable reputations. He had had on board escaping murderers, defaulting company promoters, fraudulent trustees, absconding cashiers, and a variety of other criminals from the "flash" cracksman to the common "lag". Professional gamblers, sharpers, and pickpockets had passed his way on the broad highway between Great Britain and the Dominion of South Africa.
Captain Bullock was generally very quick in "knowing his man". Rarely was he mistaken in his speedy yet calculating judgment. Already he had his Wireless Officer "sized up", and the verdict was favourable. Hence Peter Mostyn's "No, sir," was sufficient. The Old Man knew that he had spoken the truth and that he was not the mysterious intruder.
Anstey, the officer of the watch, was likewise questioned. He, too, was emphatic that he had not entered the Captain's cabin, nor had he seen anyone doing so during the middle watch.
For some days Captain Bullock pondered over the incident, blaming himself for not having challenged the intruder. Then he began to let the matter dwindle in importance, and by the time the ship reached Las Palmas he had practically forgotten all about it.
In fine, excessively hot weather theWest Barbicanapproached the Line. No tropical storm greeted her as she entered the once dreaded Doldrums, that belt of calms which has yielded its powers of holding ships captive for days on end, to the all-conquering steam and internal-combustion engines. Rarely now is there a sailing-ship to be sighted wallowing helplessly in the Doldrums, her decks and topsides opening with the terrific heat, and her crew driven almost mad with the torturing glare of the tropical sun. Auxiliary power has changed all that, and even the huge, square-rigged ship engaged in trading round the Horn is now equipped with a semi-Diesel capable of pushing her along at a modest four or five knots in a calm.
Preparations to pay the customary honours to Father Neptune were in full swing on board theWest Barbican. For days before the ship was due to cross the Line all the officers and twenty-five per cent of the passengers became temporary inquiry agents. Seemingly casual conversation was entered into with the primary object of discovering who had or who had not "crossed the Line". Within a few minutes of an unguarded remark being made by a passenger to the effect that he had not been in southern latitudes, that fact was duly recorded in a notebook by the indefatigable Acting Chief Officer. Preston was a veritable sleuth-hound in these matters, and already his "bag" was assuming favourable proportions.
Among the names recorded were those of Partridge and Plover. The two Watchers had never heard of the time-honoured ceremony, and were in utter ignorance of the ordeal through which they would have to pass. Their lack of general knowledge, combined with a somewhat surly reticence, had made them no friends on board. They kept to themselves, hardly exchanging a word with anyone else except when duty compelled them to speak.
At length the eventful day arrived when the ship was due to cross the parallel of maximum length. Soon after day-break eager lascars had been employed in spreading a huge tarpaulin over a rectangular frame, so as to form a large bath. At one end, facing the for'ard portion of the promenade deck, a platform was erected and draped with bunting. Behind locked doors officers off duty lurked in their cabins, contriving weird and startling disguises for the Sea King's festival. The donkey-engines were started—not with the idea of ejecting bilge water, but for the purpose of pumping a copious supply of salt water into the improvised tank.
On the bridge Preston was "shooting the sun". Again and again he levelled his sextant, until he was satisfied that the ship was within a few miles of the Line. Then, hastily reporting the fact to the Old Man, he disappeared down the companion-ladder to change with the utmost speed into a wondrous garb comprised chiefly of a bathing-suit, seaweed, and oyster-shells. Next, assisted by an individual who resembled a cross between George Robey and Little Tich, and who was to appear as the doctor, Father Neptune donned flowing locks and beard of picked oakum, assumed a massive crown of tinsel, and grasped his trident.
At that moment the ship's siren gave a terrific blast. It was the signal that Neptune's cortège had been sighted by the look out for'ard.
The fo'c'sle and foremost shrouds were packed with eagerly gesticulating lascars; native firemen squatted on the decks on either side of the tank, and clung like flies to the stanchion-rails. On the promenade deck all available camp-chairs had been pressed into service and were occupied by excited passengers, trying to keep cool in vain, in spite of the double awnings.
Presently Captain Bullock, resplendent in white tropical uniform with gilt buttons and shoulder-straps, descended from the bridge and took up a position in the centre of the front row of crowded deck-chairs.
"Ahoy!" roared a deep voice for'ard. "What ship is that?"
"The S.S.West Barbican, of and from London," bawled the Old Man in reply.
"Then harkee, Skipper. Father Neptune demands entrance and the honour due to his exalted rank."
"Come aboard, sir," rejoined the Old Man.
Heralded by a fanfare from hand fog-horns, and a terrific din from a variety of metal implements, begged, borrowed, or stolen from the galley, Father Neptune appeared not exactly over but close to the bows. Brandishing his trident he bellowed a nautical greeting, and proceeded to assist his Queen through the limited space of the hatchway. It was soon evident that the lady was in difficulties and a plainly audible, "Steady on, old man," delivered in a very masculine voice, had the effect of raising a boisterous chorus of laughter from the sightseers.
Amphitrite, disentangled from the embraces of a catch on the hatch-cover, appeared in her lord's wake, but the effect of her flowing locks of golden hair and her deeply rouged face were somewhat marred by the display of a pair of unmistakably masculine hands and feet.
The doctor and the barber next struggled for publicity, each questioning the other's right of precedence, with the result that each contrived to get his head through the hatchway and no farther.
It was not until the barber had converted the doctor's hat into a concertina that the former contrived to make a complete appearance, followed by the doctor, who, in his broad Scotch that betrayed him as M'Turk the Chief Engineer, requested his companion "not to play the fule beforr your time".
Then came the bears—grotesquely garbed fellows recruited mainly from the Chief Steward's department, but with the residue of the engineers off duty to leaven the whole lump. Almost before King Neptune and his Queen were seated upon their respective thrones the zealous bears had scattered to rope in the victims of the revels.
The first to be brought into the arena was Watcher Partridge. His opposite number, scenting trouble, had deserted him, and was making his way to the stokehold, hotly pursued by a couple of brawny bears.
Partridge submitted sullenly. Without a word or act of protest he was led before the doctor.
"Are ye no' weel, laddie?" inquired the doctor. "Open your mouth and show your tongue."
The bird obeyed.
The next instant he was spluttering and coughing, for the doctor had dexterously placed a pill, composed of the unholiest ingredients of the engineers' stores, in the wide-open cavity. Still spluttering, he was again seized by the attendant bears, blindfolded, and forced into the barber's chair.
The barber eyed the agitated Partridge dispassionately.
"Hair cut or shave?" he inquired, and, receiving no reply, he seized one of his razors, a formidable-looking instrument fashioned out of a barrel stave.
A few deft strokes and the deed was done. Partridge, released from the chair, sprang to his feet amidst the delighted howls of the spectators. One side of his face was streaked with Stockholm tar, the other with red ochre.
"Run for it!" exclaimed one of the bears, guiding the bewildered Partridge towards the tank. The bird hopped it, trod on air as one foot overstepped the narrow edge, and, with a sousing splash, he plunged headlong into the water.
He had barely time to gasp for breath when a bear ducked him. Thrice this operation was repeated before the pie-bald Watcher was allowed to escape, without even receiving King Neptune's congratulations upon becoming a Son of the Sea.
The while other victims were being attended to by the doctor and the barber, and unceremoniously bundled into the tank.
For the most part they accepted the situation with a good grace. In the case of the passengers who had not crossed the Line before, certain allowances had been made for them; nevertheless some were rather rigorously handled before receiving their diplomas as Freemen of the Seas. Since they had received short notice to the effect that it would be as well if they "rigged out" to be in readiness for a ducking, they took the hint, changing into bathing-costumes or any old clothes obtainable.
One passenger, a burly, six-feet-two individual, with huge biceps showing up under the tight sleeves of his bathing-suit, certainly gave the bears a run for their money; for, when they went to bring him to Neptune's court, they found that he had put on a pair of boxing-gloves.
"Come on!" he exclaimed, with a good-tempered laugh. "I'll take on the whole crowd, Neptune included."
Nothing loth, a plucky little bear stooped and rushed in to collar the defiant passenger round the waist. The next instant he was sent staggering into the arms of one of his companions, and the two floundered on the deck, capsizing the barber and his two pots of ochre and tar.
"At him, lads!" roared Neptune, forgetting in his excitement that he was playing the rôle of King of the Sea.
Five or six bears rushed at the man from opposite sides. He waited until they were almost on him, then, without the faintest sign of his intention, dived straight at the feet of those on his right.
There was weight and power behind those hunched shoulders. Three of his assailants, swept off their feet, crashed to the deck, while their comrades, unable to check the impetus of their rush, tumbled in a confused heap upon the baffled, sprawling three.
From under this struggling mob, like a porpoise in an angry sea, emerged the stalwart passenger. Springing to his feet he dashed up the ladder to the promenade-deck, cleared a way between the throng of spectators, who cheered him heartily, and gained the boat-deck.
For a while he paused to contemplate the sorting out of the discomfited bears; then, finding his pursuers hard on his track, he scaled the side of the wireless-cabin. On the roof he took up his stand. With his broad back against the trunk of the aerial it looked as if he could hold his own against all comers.
The lascars were beside themselves with excitement. The passengers, leaving the shelter of the double awnings, stood under the blazing sun, straining their eyes in the dazzling glare as they watched the tactics of their champion.
"Lasso him, lads!" shouted Neptune, laying aside his trident and preparing to take an active part in the subjugation of his recalcitrant subject.
Some of the bears hurried off to obtain ropes. Others waited by the base of the wireless-cabin, feeling decidedly uncomfortable as the hot sun played upon their scanty, wet garments.
Just then another party of bears came for'ard dragging the luckless Plover, whom they had captured in an empty bunker.
The appearance of the second bird created a diversion. The bears guarding the wireless-cabin, eager to witness the initiation of the unpopular Plover, lost interest in the huge passenger on the roof.
In a trice the latter slid down to the bridge, swung himself down by a stanchion to the promenade-deck and thence to the enemies' camp—the temporary court of Father Neptune.
Hurling aside the doctor, who had already received rougher treatment than he had meted out to his victims, the defiant subject of King Neptune made a bull-like rush for that august monarch.
The next moment they were at grips. In spite of wearing boxing-gloves the stalwart passenger held Neptune tightly round the waist. The latter strove with his sinewy hands to disengage himself from the powerful embrace. In the struggle Neptune's tinsel crown slipped over one eye and his tow-beard fell off, revealing the rugged features of Acting Chief Officer Preston.
For about thirty seconds the two men struggled furiously, yet the keenest observer could detect no trace of bad temper. The adversaries were sportsmen both, who knew how to keep themselves under control.
With the sweat pouring in streams down their faces they continued swaying and heaving. Both were of about the same weight and build. Preston had the handicap of about ten years, but he was as fit as a fiddle and hard as nails.
Amphitrite had discreetly retired from the arena, while the bears, unwilling to take an unfair advantage of their intended prey, stood in a semicircle, impartially encouraging both adversaries. Even Captain Bullock, who through long usage had become bored stiff with the "crossing of the Line revels", was on his feet shouting excitedly at the novel spectacle of Neptune being bearded in his den.
Suddenly the unexpected climax happened.
Before anyone could utter a warning or check the impetuous movement of the two wrestlers, Preston was forced to the edge of the temporary dais, which was on a level with the wire guard-rails.
Probably his antagonist was blinded by the perspiration running into his eyes, because he failed to see the danger resulting from his headlong rush.
Locked in each other's arms the two men disappeared over the side of the ship.
THE TWO MEN DISAPPEARED OVER THE SIDE OF THE SHIPTHE TWO MEN DISAPPEARED OVER THE SIDE OF THE SHIP
THE TWO MEN DISAPPEARED OVER THE SIDE OF THE SHIPTHE TWO MEN DISAPPEARED OVER THE SIDE OF THE SHIP
For a brief instant the danger and suddenness of the catastrophe were hardly realized. Assembled for a pageant the passengers were horrified into silence by the unexpected turn of events. Then a woman shrieked, and the spell was broken. Almost every one of the occupants of the deck-chairs stood up and rushed to the side, shouting as if noise would help the two men struggling for their lives.
The lascars too seemed incapable of action. They flocked to the side of the ship, and gazed seemingly without emotion into the deep-blue water.
At the shout of "Man overboard!" raised by Anstey, the officer of the watch, Captain Bullock unceremoniously dashed between the groups of bewildered passengers and gained the bridge. Even in his haste his brain was solving a ready problem. Who was to go away in the lifeboat? The Acting Chief was struggling for dear life in the "ditch". He could swim well, as the Old Man knew, but after his strenuous wrestling bout had he sufficient strength to keep afloat until picked up? Anstey, as officer on duty, could not leave the bridge. There was one executive officer short of the ship's complement, and as far as Captain Bullock was aware, none of the engineers off duty was capable of managing a boat, while a bungler at the tiller meant not only delay but probably failure.
Fortunately thesecuniin the wheelhouse had acted promptly, putting the helm over to port in order to swing the ship's stern clear of the men in the ditch, and thus avoid the danger of their being cut to pieces by the propeller. They were now a good four hundred yards astern, while between them and the ship was a line of lifebuoys thrown with fine indiscrimination by the passengers. The nearest lifebuoy to the two exhausted men was at least a hundred yards away.
During the interrupted revels theWest Barbicanhad reduced speed, and already Anstey had rung down for "Stop".
"Let go the lifeboat—away lifeboat's crew," bawled the Old Man, as he moved the telegraph indicator to full speed astern; then, leaning over the bridge rails, he hailed a grotesquely garbed figure standing motionless and alert on the temporary dais:
"Mr. Mostyn: take charge of the lifeboat."
With a feeling of elation Peter rushed to carry out the order. This time there was no question of it. The Old Man had spoken. It was a tribute to the Wireless Officer's capabilities in a province that was not strictly his own.
Urged by the shrill cries of the serang and tindal of the watch the lascars had now formed up on the boat-deck. Some had then their places in the out-swung boat, while others stood by the falls ready to lower away.
Although the engines had been going full speed astern theWest Barbicanwas still forging ahead when Peter jumped into the stern-sheets of the lifeboat. She was still carrying way when the falls were disengaged and the boat pushed off from the ship's side.
"Soft job this," soliloquized Mostyn. "The sea's calm, the water's warm, and old Preston and the other fellow have got hold of the lifebuoy. Tumbling into the ditch under these conditions is a picnic—Hello, though—is it?"
*****
To say the least of it, Preston was both surprised and indignant when he found himself hurtling through space in the vice-like grip of his antagonist. It was poor consolation to know that there was someone else in the same predicament. What was particularly galling was the fact that he, a veteran officer of the Mercantile Marine, should be such an ass as to skylark and then fall overboard in so doing.
These thoughts flashed through his mind during the time he dropped through thirty odd feet of space between the deck of the ship and the surface of the water. Then the terrific impact with the Atlantic Ocean abruptly ended his reveries of self-reproach.
To a certain extent it was fortunate that the two men remained interlocked during their fall. Hunched up after the manner of a diver doing a "honey-pot" from a spring-board they got off comparatively lightly, although the impact was fairly severe, and had the effect of depriving them of most of the scanty breath left after their strenuous encounter.
"The blighter will grip like grim death," thought Preston, as he sank fathoms down; "I'll have a deuce of a job to shake him off."
But the sudden immersion had the unexpected result that the men mutually released their grip. Perhaps it was that both were good swimmers and realized that the quickest way to refill their lungs with air was to strike out for the surface.
They emerged almost simultaneously, gasping and spluttering.
"Not that way!" exclaimed Preston breathlessly, as his companion in misfortune began striking out for the ship's side. "Mind the prop."
The other realized the danger of being caught by the swiftly moving blades of the screw, but even then it was only the prompt action of thesecuniat the wheel that saved him from being drawn into the vortex.
"Nothing to worry about," spluttered Preston, as the two bobbed like corks in the quartering wave. "We'll be picked up all right. My aunt! Look at them! Well, they might have chucked them on our heads."
He referred to the injudicious volley of lifebuoys. Although the ship was carrying way the passengers were still engaged in dumping the Company's property into the sea.
His companion laughed. Regaining his breath he was also regaining his boisterous spirits, although he had to admit that the struggle, followed by a thirty-odd foot fall had severely taxed his splendid brawn and muscle.
"You don't look in your element, Preston," he remarked, "even though you are Father Neptune."
"Was," corrected the absentee Acting Chief Officer, proceeding to relieve himself of the encumbrance of his scanty garb of trailing seaweed and oyster-shells. "Come on; we may as well strike out for the nearest of that line of lifebuoys. Breast stroke. There's no great hurry, and it's less tiring."
Although the passenger had gone overboard wearing boxing-gloves, that had remained on his hands despite his wrestling bout, one had disappeared during his submergence. Preston remarked on it.
"Yes," rejoined the other. "Might just as well hang on to this one, although one's not much use. Cost me a couple of Bradbury's just before we left England. I say, do you mind telling me this: I declare I've crossed the Line without being initiated. Is that so?"
"It is," replied Preston feelingly. "If you'd gone through the thing tamely we wouldn't have been in the ditch. Why did you ask me?"
By this time both men had swum to the nearest of the far-flung line of lifebuoys, and, glad of the support, were hanging on lightly at opposite sides of the buoyant "Kisbie".
"'Cause I want corroboration. Last night Murgatroyd bet me a tenner I wouldn't escape it. Have I won?"
"You have."
"Right-o, Preston!" was the delighted response. "I'll stand you a dinner in the swankiest hotel in Adderley Street as soon as we arrive at Cape Town. That's a deal. Hello! They're lowering a boat. What are you looking at?"
The Acting Chief Officer had seen the boat being swung out, and was calculating how long it would take to reach the spot where the lifebuoy was—calculating whether the boat's crew would find only an unoccupied lifebuoy floating in a patch of blood-stained sea—for less than fifty yards away was the black, triangular dorsal fin of an enormous shark.
"Nothing much," replied Preston, as calmly as he could, although the strained expression of his eyes was sufficient to attract his companion's curiosity. "Kick as hard as you jolly well can. Make a splash."
"Shark, eh?" exclaimed the co-partner of the life-buoy. "Right-o! I'm having my money's worth this trip anyway."
"Splash, man, splash!" was Preston's only rejoinder.
*****
"By Jove, I guess I look a sketch," thought Mostyn, as he steered the lifeboat towards the two men clinging to the buoy.
He certainly did. Called away hurriedly, he still wore part of his disguise as Amphitrite, Neptune's Queen. He had cast off his flowing locks of tow, but his well-powdered face and a vivid patch of rouge on either cheek looked absolutely grotesque. His costume of muslin (lent by one of the lady passengers) had suffered horribly during his attempt to squeeze through the hatch, while the trimmings of seashells and seaweed added to the weird appearance of the young Wireless Officer. To facilitate his movements Peter had "gathered in the slack" of his trailing garments, since without assistance he could not tackle the numerous safety-pins that his dresser had used in order to make sure that "nothing would come adrift and carry away".
"Hello, though—is it!" he reiterated, shading his eyes with his left hand.
Right in the glare reflected in the water his keen eyes had spotted a tell-tale swirl. Then above the surface appeared an object that settled his doubts. It was the dorsal fin of a shark.
One of the lascars, looking over his shoulder, saw the danger too. He raised a shrill cry that had the effect of startling his fellow-oarsmen and putting them off their stroke.
"Chup rao!" (Shut up), shouted Peter sternly. "Pull like blue blazes."
"Blue blazes" was evidently a stranger to the lascars' vocabulary, but they understood the word "pull" and guessed the significance of the rest.
Redoubling their efforts, they made the heavy boat travel rapidly through the calm water; but Peter realized that if the shark attacked with any promptitude the rescuers would be too late. He saw that Preston and his companion in distress were doing the best thing they could in the circumstances—making a violent splash. Whether the shark would be scared away was a matter for speculation.
Evidently the tiger of the deep was hungry. He was not devoid of pluck, for he had begun to swim round and round the two men, the while drawing nearer to the buoy. At any moment he might make a dart straight for his victims.
Peter knew this. He had seen a shark seize a South Sea Islander from a crowd of natives splashing and shouting in the surf. He had seen another monster seize and devour a dog within ten yards of a boat putting off to the animal's rescue.
There was no rifle in the lifeboat. In the Royal Navy they do things differently from the Mercantile Marine. Peter had an automatic. It was one of the things he took good care to provide himself with after his experiences in S.S.Donibristle; but the weapon was locked up in his cabin, and in the present circumstances it was like the Dutchman's anchor.
The boat was now a hundred yards from the life-buoy—the shark ten. The brute was still circling, sometimes diving, sometimes showing its head; but up to the present it had shown no sign of preparing to seize its prey by turning on its back.
A sudden inspiration flashed across Mostyn's mind. In the stern-sheets of the lifeboat was a box containing amongst other things a Verey's pistol. It was a weapon not of offence but for humane purposes. It was fired by means of a cartridge, but, instead of a bullet, it sent up a vivid coloured light to a height of about two hundred feet.
Peter stooped and opened the lid of the box. Thank Heaven! The pistol and cartridges were there. Deftly he opened the breech and thrust home the cardboard cylinder containing the detonator and explosive light; then, standing on the stern bench and steadying the tiller with one foot, he levelled the short-barrelled weapon.
For some seconds he waited. The shark in its orbit was immediately between the lifebuoy and the boat. Preston and his companion were in as much danger from the pistol as they were from the shark.
The huge fish dived and soon reappeared, this time well to the left of the buoy. It had partly turned on its back, and its wide-open jaws, triple lines of pointed teeth, and greenish-white belly were clearly visible, for by this time the whaler was less than twenty-five yards away.
It was now or never. The shark was preparing to make a dash for its victims under the bows of the boat.
Deliberately Peter pressed the trigger. He had to guess for elevation, knowing nothing of the trajectory of the missile. His aim was good. The rocket must have disappeared down the capacious maw of the shark, for there was no sign of the fiercely burning rocket sizzling on the surface. The satisfactory part of the business was that the shark disappeared and was seen no more.
Quickly the two men were hauled into the boat, both bordering on a state of collapse. Then, ordering the lascars to give way, Mostyn steered for theWest Barbican, picking up the jettisoned lifebuoys on the way. He was one who always finished a job properly.
A few days later Mostyn was having an easy time. He was on watch, but with little to do. A notice-board on the promenade-deck furnished the reason for his enforced inactivity:
"S.S.West Barbican. To-day, in radio communication withnil. To-morrow, radio communication expected withnil."
The notice was painted with the exception of the twonils, which were written in chalk. Placed for the convenience of passengers wishing to send off private wireless messages, it duly recorded what ships and shore stations were within radio range. In her present position in the South Atlantic she was too far away to dispatch or pick up messages from Cape Town, the radius of her wireless being limited to 240 miles by day and almost thrice that distance by night.
Peter had overhauled the set, and was taking the opportunity of writing home. With his white patrol-coat unbuttoned and hissolar topeeperched on the back of his head, he was making the best of things in spite of the terrific heat and the attentions of numerous cockroaches.
There were thousands of these insects all over the ship, ranging in size from an eighth of an inch to nearly three inches in length. Whilst theWest Barbicanwas in home waters their presence was invisible. They kept to the dark and inaccessible parts of the ship; but directly the weather grew warmer, as the ship neared the Tropics, they emerged fearlessly from their lairs and swarmed everywhere. By this time the passengers had grown more or less accustomed to them, but the early stages of the invasion of the living pests of the ship had caused great consternation and indignation, especially on the part of the ladies on board.
In times of boredom, when the passengers were "fed up" with deck-quoits and sweepstakes on the "day's run", the cockroaches would be pressed into service to provide entertainment. A dozen or more would be captured and placed on the deck, each having its own particular "fancier" in a miniature race, and it was surprising to see with what zest the passengers entered into the sport.
Presently Peter heard a light footfall on the deck, followed by a distinct knock upon the wide-open door of the cabin.
Rising, Peter found that Olive Baird was standing outside the brass-rimmed coaming.
"Good morning, Mr. Mostyn," she said. "Will you mind telling me if a message can be sent to Cape Town? And how much per word, please?"
"Sorry, Miss Baird," he replied, "we aren't in touch with any shore station. We may possibly get the Cape Town one to-morrow night."
At the back of his mind Peter found himself wondering why Miss Baird hadn't gone to the trouble of reading the announcement on the notice-board. He was rather glad she hadn't—perhaps she had purposely ignored it. It gave him an opportunity of entering into conversation with the girl.
Already Anstey had found out quite a lot about Olive Baird. How, he refused to divulge, but it was pretty certain that the girl had let out little or nothing.
Olive Baird was motherless. Her father had married again to a woman only five years older than his daughter, and, instinctively scenting domestic trouble in the near future, Olive had determined to earn her own living—a task that she had already found to be far more difficult than the cultured girl had imagined.
Almost at the end of her resources—for she knew that she would receive neither sympathy nor help from her estranged parent—Olive remembered a distant relation, a girl but a few years older than herself, who had married an official holding an appointment in the Kenya Colony.
To her Olive wrote, asking if there might be any post open to her in the district. Three months elapsed before the reply came—that there was a warm welcome awaiting her. Enclosed was a banker's draft, enough, and only enough, to pay for her passage out and to provide a necessary and simple outfit.
Before theWest Barbicanwas many days out Mrs. Shallop, in one of her few amiable moods, had asked the friendless and reserved girl if she would, for a small remuneration, give her a couple of hours a day for the purpose of reading to her.
"My eyes aren't what they were," explained Mrs. Shallop. "And it's deadly dull on this ship when I can't even read."
So Olive thankfully accepted the post, because it helped her to pay her way; and, even when Mrs. Shallop had her almost at her beck and call, the girl did her best to keep on good terms with her.
It was not long before Olive found out the true nature of her supposed benefactress. Mrs. Shallop was vain, boastful, and with no regard for veracity. She was one of those persons who, having told the same fairy tale over and over again, firmly believe that the lie is the truth. On the other hand, her memory was defective, with the result that very frequently her story had a totally different setting when told a second or third time. In addition, she was bitingly sarcastic, and was never known to say a good word about anyone but herself.
So Olive had rather a rotten time.
The girl was, however, absolutely loyal to her employer. In the course of conversation with other passengers she was careful not to say a word that might be detrimental to Mrs. Shallop. Evidently that lady thought she might, for Argus-like she kept a strict watch upon her.
The Shallops had taken "Round Trip" tickets. These were issued by the Blue Crescent Line, and guaranteed a voyage of not less than three months. If by any chance, as was frequently the case, the voyage was prolonged, the holder of the ticket scored, for he or she was maintained at the Company's expense until the ship returned home or the passengers transferred to another vessel of the Company's bound for England.
Olive Baird's employers had made a heap of money during the Great War, and were now doing their best to spend it. Nevertheless, they wanted value for their outlay, and the round trip in theWest Barbicanpointed that way. Mr. Shallop was not keen on the voyage. It was his wife who insisted upon it, mainly because it was "the thing" to travel, and it would be an easy matter on their return to give out that they had gone on a palatial P. & O. mail-boat. It sounded grander than the Blue Crescent Line.
By this time the heat was beginning to tell upon the portly Mrs. Shallop. There were actually long intervals in which her strident voice failed to lacerate the ears of her fellow-passengers.
This was one of them. Wanting to do "the thing" and send a wireless message to her sister in Cape Town, Mrs. Shallop was too fatigued to mount the bridge-ladder; her husband had sheepishly slunk away to the smoking-room, and only Olive was available to undertake the commission.
"I'm sorry to have interrupted you," remarked Olive.
"Not at all; don't mention it," protested Peter; then, in an outburst of candour, he added: "You haven't seen our wireless-room."
"I should love to," rejoined Olive, who had the modern girl's leanings towards anything of a scientific nature. "I always wanted to see what it was like and how it worked, but I didn't like to ask you."
Without more ado Mostyn proceeded to explain the mysteries of that steel-walled house, unconsciously launching out into an intricate technical lecture on wave-lengths, atmospherics, induced current, valve and spark-gaps, until Olive was quite bewildered.
"There's nothing doing," he remarked, after the girl had placed the telephone ear-pieces to her shapely ears. "We're too far away from land. But I'll disconnect the aerial and let you see a ripping spark."
"Another time, Mr. Mostyn," demurred Olive. "Mrs. Shallop will wonder what I've been doing."
Calling silent maledictions upon the head of the tartar, Peter escorted the girl to the head of the bridge-ladder, extorting a promise that she would pay another visit to the wireless-cabin when the ship got within radiographic range.
"Or earlier if you like," he added.
He watched her disappear from sight and slowly made his way back to the cabin. Somehow the home-letter proceeded slowly and disjointedly. He was thinking of the jolly little girl who took such an interest in wireless.
Poor Peter! If he had only known how he had tired her almost to the verge of boredom.
Ten minutes after Miss Baird's departure Mostyn "got busy". Away to the starboard a vessel was calling CQ. The note was very faint and considerably hampered by atmospherics.
He was still endeavouring to tune in to the correct wave-length when he was interrupted by a vigorous punch between the shoulder-blades. Over his shoulder he saw that the interrupter was Mrs. Shallop.
Peter was rather more than annoyed by the interruption. He was angry. There was no denying that he possessed a temper, but he had usually the happy knack of keeping his feelings well under control. In the present circumstances he felt inclined to expostulate vehemently.
For one thing, he had a rooted dislike for the woman. For another, she had no right to be on the bridge, unless for the purpose of sending off a message or by the skipper's permission. Neither reason held just then. The wireless-cabin was closed for private transmission; she had not obtained the Old Man's sanction to be on the bridge.
The fact that Miss Baird had been on that spot only a few minutes previously hardly entered into Mostyn's calculations. Unconsciously he had allowed himself to be influenced by personal considerations, and he had forgotten that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander.
With a deprecatory gesture of his left hand Mostyn attempted to convey the impression that he was busy. His attention had to be concentrated on the CQ message if he were to understand its import. It was difficult enough, without his being hampered by external interruptions.
One would have thought a hint sufficient. Not a bit of it! Mrs. Shallop was one of those hidebound, overbearing individuals who expected immediate and subservient attention.
"Why did you refuse to send off my message?" she demanded, in her loud, grating voice. "You put Miss Baird off with a trivial excuse, but that won't work with me, young man. Isn't my money as good as anyone else's? Don't you know that I'm the daughter of a naval——"
Mostyn removed the telephones and stood up. There was an ominous glint in his eyes. His forbearance was nearing the breaking-point.
"I can only refer you to the notice-board on the promenade-deck," he said. "That and the intimation that passengers are forbidden on the bridge except with the Captain's permission. If you have any cause for complaint, please report to Captain Bullock. I must ask you to leave the wireless-cabin at once."
Mrs. Shallop recoiled as if she had received a blow on the face. She had expected no opposition. The quiet, decisive, and deliberate tones of the young Wireless Officer had completely taken the wind out of her sails.
Without a word she turned and made straight for the Old Man's cabin, bursting in like a tornado.
Captain Bullock was being shaved by his servant. The sudden and unexpected entrance of the tartar caused Wilkins's attention to wander, with the result that a crimson streak discoloured the lather on the skipper's chin.
Captain Bullock had, according to his usual custom, decided to remove his beard when approaching the Cape, and the operation was well advanced when Mrs. Shallop intruded at a very inopportune moment.
She failed to recognize the skipper shorn of his beard and with his face plastered with soap.
"Where's the Old Man?" she demanded heatedly.
What was the exact nature of Captain Bullock's reply Mostyn was unable to hear. With his mouth full of soap and his chin bleeding profusely the Old Man's articulation was a trifle confused; but he certainly did let himself go, with the result that the interrupter, in spite of her oft-reiterated claim to be a lady, was unceremoniously requested to remove herself to a region considerably warmer than the skipper's cabin, the temperature of which was registering 130° in the shade.
Chuckling to himself, Peter saw the discomfited Mrs. Shallop descend the bridge-ladder with more haste than dignity; then he tried, but in vain, to pick up the interrupted CQ signal.
"Captain Sahib him want you, sahib," announced Mahmed.
Mostyn promptly obeyed the summons. He too was rather surprised at the alteration effected by the removal of the skipper's beard, the newly shaven portion contrasting forcibly with the brick-red tan of the rest of his face.
"Tell me," began the Captain, "what was that old barge doing in the wireless-cabin?"
Peter explained.
The Old Man nodded eagerly.
"You did the right thing, my boy," he remarked "I've had enough—more than enough—of that impossible woman. I told her that in future she is not to come on the bridge on any pretext whatsoever. If she wants to send a message, let her; but she must do so in writing and submit it to me before it is passed. That'll clip her wings. All right, Mr. Mostyn, carry on."
Peter carried on until relieved by Watcher Plover. The latter was improving considerably, although he could never become an operator. He lacked the education and intelligence necessary for the work, but by this time he was able to discriminate between various signals and to know the Morse call for the ship. Consequently Peter's watch below was not subject to numerous and unnecessary interruptions.
"Hello, Sparks!" exclaimed Preston, as Mostyn blew into the smoking-room. "So you've been up against it this time. Tell us all about it."
There were about half a dozen passengers, the Acting Chief Officer, and two of the engineers off duty passing a pleasant hour. All seemed eager to know full particulars of the encounter.
"She's an unmitigated nuisance," declared an artist, proceeding to Natal in order to paint some frescoes for one of the important buildings. "We'll all be reduced to nervous wrecks before we see the last of her. Can't we choke her off?"
"For Heaven's sake don't, old chap," protested Comyn, his cabin-mate, a tall, lean-faced, literary man. "I bear the brunt of it. Every morning I get a dose of it until I know every shred of her personal history in spite of the fact that the details vary as consistently as does the ship's position. It is priceless. I revel in it. Wouldn't miss it for worlds; I encourage her, in fact."
"'Tany rate," interposed Alderton grimly, "she called you a lanky reptile."
"Perhaps," rejoined the unruffled author. "If it comes to that, she said you were a little worm. There's no end of fun making out that you believe all Mrs. Shallop tells you. It's a little gold mine."
"For you, perhaps," added Preston. "However, I guess the Old Man has upset her apple-cart. We won't hear her bell-like notes again in a hurry."
But he was mistaken. Into the smoke-laden atmosphere wafted the strident voice of the lady under discussion. She was venting her wrath upon Olive Baird.