He resolved, in spite of his weariness, to make periodical visits to the wireless-cabin.

At 10.30 p.m. he cautiously approached the cabin; not with the idea of eavesdropping but merely to see if Watcher Partridge were on the alert.

If he were, Peter meant to withdraw without disturbing him. If he were not--Peter smiled grimly.

Thrusting his feet into his rubber boots (on principle Mostyn always had sea-boots a size larger than he wore with sh.o.r.e-going kit) the Wireless Officer made his way to the cabin. A glance through the closed scuttle showed him that Partridge was wide awake, and that he still wore the telephones. Satisfied, he began to retrace his steps and encountered Preston tracking along the alleyway.

d.i.c.k Preston was still Acting Chief, the Chief Officer having failed to join the ship at Gravesend. Consequently the _West Barbican_ was one executive officer short.

"h.e.l.lo there!" exclaimed Preston. "Thought it was your watch below, Sparks. What's up: developed insomnia?"

Mostyn told him the reason for his visit to the bridge.

"That's all right, young fellah-me-lad," declared the Acting Chief.

"You turn in. I know you've had a pretty sticky time. I'll keep an eye on yon greenhorn and see that he doesn't drop asleep on his perch.

Trust me for that."

Five minutes later Peter was sound asleep.

Suddenly he was aroused by a hand grasping his shoulder. Only half awake the Wireless Officer sat up in his bunk, narrowly avoiding collision with the cork-cemented beam overhead.

"TTT, sir!" bellowed an excited voice.

For the present Peter was still hovering on the border-line 'twixt slumber and wakefulness. Somehow he had the idea in his brain that he was once more on board the S.S. _Donibristle_, and the officers'

steward had brought him a cup of tea before going on watch.

"No, dash it all!" he expostulated. "I don't want tea now."

"TTT, sir! TTT!" repeated the disturber of Mostyn's peace.

Then Peter realized the situation. It was Watcher Partridge, almost falling over himself in his anxiety to proclaim the fact that at last he had had a call through of an important nature.

Tumbling out of his bunk, Peter slipped into his bridge coat, and hurried to the wireless-cabin, the Watcher, puffing and blowing, following hard on his heels.

Picking up the 'phones, Mostyn listened for a few seconds. Then he replaced the ear-pieces on the table.

"You'll have to do better than that next time," he observed caustically. "That's not TTT--nothing like it. It's North Foreland on our starboard quarter calling CQ. Tuning in, most likely."

Returning to his bunk, Peter noticed that it was now 11.15 p.m. There was still a chance of a good night's rest, he reflected.

At a quarter to twelve he was called again to receive time signals.

Forty-five minutes later he was aroused to call for wireless orders for the ship. On this occasion nothing was forthcoming, so back along the now familiar alleyway he hurried to his sleeping-cabin.

It seemed as if Peter had been asleep only a few minutes when there was a terrific hammering at his door. Sitting up, Mostyn felt for the electric light switch. He found it easily enough. There was a metallic snap--but the cabin was not flooded with light. Something had gone wrong with the bulb, he reflected, as he shouted to the disturber without to come in.

The door opened. There appeared the perspiring face of Crawford, the engineer of the watch, his features thrown into weird relief by the guttering gleam of an oil hand-lamp.

"Hey, laddie!" he exclaimed in sepulchral tones. "Yon Watcher, he's----"

Words failed the Second Engineer.

"I'm awa' to sort yon," he added, and, as if no further explanation were necessary, bolted precipitately.

Imagining that nothing short of a vision of Partridge grilling on the main switch would meet his gaze, Peter doubled to the wireless-cabin.

The alleyway was in pitch darkness. He collided violently with the Third Engineer, who, summoned from his slumbers, was making tracks for the engine-room.

On the bridge the officer of the watch was shouting to the serang to bring up the emergency oil-lamps. Every fuse in the ship had been blown out, and consequently not only the internal lighting had failed but the electric masthead and side lights had refused duty. With the _West Barbican_ proceeding down Channel at fifteen knots on a dark night the possibilities of a disastrous collision were great, until the emergency lights were rigged up and the ship brought back on her course, since the binnacle lamp had failed with the other electric lights.

A strong smell of burning gutta-percha and ebonite greeted Peter as he gained the vicinity of the wireless-cabin. Outside stood Partridge and Plover, the latter about to take over the watch. Both were horribly scared, and no wonder, for upon striking a match Mostyn found the reason for all the trouble.

Watcher Partridge, on turning over to his opposite number, had hung the telephones on the main switch. He was deeply surprised and not a little pained when there was a miniature Brocks' display inside the cabin, both ear-pieces of the 'phones burning out and emitting most nauseating fumes, while every fuse on board had been blown out, causing a complete breakdown of the electric-light system.

After explaining matters to the angry Old Man, who was, figuratively, hunting for the scalp of the luckless Partridge, Mostyn set to work to rectify the share of the damage that came within his province. It took him the best part of an hour to replace the defective main switch by a new one, connect new telephones, and overhaul the set.

Then, back once more to his bunk, Peter realized that less than five hours remained before he took over the watch. It was now 3.15 p.m.

At 4.45 the engineer of the watch interrupted Mostyn's dreams. Once again the fuses had blown out, the cause being traced to the wireless-cabin.

The Wireless Officer stumbled across Master Plover at the foot of the bridge ladder. The Watcher was nursing his foot, and making inarticulate noises that denoted pain. The sole of his left boot was missing, together with the fearsome array of hobnails that used to play a tattoo upon the bra.s.s treads of the ladders.

Master Plover could give no coherent account of what had happened.

"I was sittin' there as quiet as a mouse a-listenin' in," he whimpered, "when I found myself chucked orf me chair right through the blinkin'

door. S'elp me, I didn't do nothin' to the gadgets."

Peter guessed rightly as to what had actually happened. The Watcher wasn't watching. In other words, he had been dozing, and in a somnolent state had unconsciously placed his iron-shod boot upon the long-suffering main switch.

Making good defects, Mostyn managed to soothe the still highly nervous Plover into a state of tractability. Till a quarter to eight the jaded Wireless Officer did enjoy an uninterrupted sleep, then to be awakened by Mahmed's cheerful announcement: "Char, sahib."

Ten minutes later Peter took on. As he heard the dot-and-carry-one patter of the relieved Watcher's solitary boot, he smiled to himself and reflected that, although the work of a wireless officer is at times a strenuous one, it has its humorous side and is not without compensations.

CHAPTER X

The Unheeded SOS

During the rest of the day the _West Barbican_ rolled before the following wind, to the no small discomfort of the majority of the pa.s.sengers. It was a cold wind, too, and few of the pa.s.sengers who had withstood the attacks of _mal de mer_ ventured on deck.

"Have you found out who that loud-voiced female pa.s.senger is?" inquired Peter of Anstey, as the two paced the almost deserted boat-deck.

He put the question with ulterior motives, masking the main point of his curiosity.

"That queer specimen?" rejoined the Third Officer. "No, I haven't, beyond the fact that she's a Mrs. Shallop, and her husband, that red-faced man, is a horse-dealer, who made a pile in the war by stopping at home and selling broken-down hacks to Government inspectors who hardly knew the bow of a gee-gee from the stern. Yes, we're going to have some fun out of Mrs. Shallop before long, old son. She's had a row with the purser, two with the chief stewardess, and a few with the stewards thrown in as make-weights."

"What about?' asked Mostyn.

"Goodness knows," replied Anstey. "The purser was talking to the Old Man about it after breakfast. She's rather got on the poor chap's nerves. Apparently she's an imaginary grievance that they don't treat her like a 'lydy', so she's been ramming it down their throats that she's a naval officer's daughter--a captain's daughter."