The Wireless Officer Part 7

He was awakened by the appearance of Mahmed with the inevitable char.

The native boy was now in "full rig", a concession to the still-absent pa.s.sengers. He wore a white drill suit, similar to that worn by officers in tropical climes, with the exception that there were no shoulder-straps. On his head he sported a round skull-cap of astrakhan, with a scarlet top.

"No come yet, sahib," announced Mahmed, in response to Peter's inquiry as to whether the tender had come alongside with the pa.s.sengers.

"All right," rejoined Peter, as he handed back the empty cup. "Tell Partridge Sahib and Plover Sahib I want them in the wireless-cabin."

Going on deck, Peter found that the fog was as thick as ever. It was now nearly eight bells (4 p.m.), and the crew had been mustered for inspection. All the deck hands were now rigged out in uniforms.

Instead of the motley garb, each man had a loose-fitting coat of butcher-blue, reaching to his knees and secured round the waist with a red scarf. His headdress was a scarlet, close-fitting cap, not unlike the Egyptian "tarboosh". This was the uniform issued by the Company for "ceremonial", and the expected advent of pa.s.sengers was a fitting occasion for the display.

Three short blasts close alongside brought the officer of the watch to the end of the bridge.

"Tender alongside, sir," he announced.

The Old Man, in his best uniform, loomed up through the fog, disappearing as he hastened to the gangway, where, at the foot of the accommodation ladder, two lascars were stationed at the manropes to a.s.sist in the trans-embarkation of the pa.s.sengers.

Gliding through the mist like a wraith the squat, snub-nosed tender ran alongside and was made fast. One by one the pa.s.sengers began to ascend the swaying accommodation ladder. In all they numbered forty-one, mostly of the male s.e.x. A few were missionaries bound for Kenya and Uganda; there were men taking up farming in the rich lands of the interior of British East Africa; mining engineers for Rhodesia; and people who for various reasons had booked their pa.s.sages to the Cape by the _West Barbican_ rather than by the fast mail-boats. There was also a young man in the uniform of a Mercantile Marine Officer. He was the s.h.i.+p's doctor, "signed on" for the voyage only, thus combining business with pleasure, being in ordinary conditions a hard-worked country pract.i.tioner. It was the first long holiday he had had for five years, and he meant to make the best of every minute of it.

There were seven lady pa.s.sengers. The first one up the ladder was a stout, middle-aged woman, dressed rather startlingly for a trip on a tender in a fog. Her travelling-costume was certainly of good material but too vivid in colour for a woman of her age and build.

Mostyn, standing a few feet from the head of the accommodation ladder, watched her curiously. At one time she might have been good-looking.

A perpetual sneer was on her face. She looked a woman who was habitually peevish and vile-tempered. Even as she came up the ladder she was complaining in a loud, high-pitched voice to someone following her--her husband apparently.

"Bet she's a tartar," thought Peter, and turned his attention to the next newcomer--a red-faced, sheepish-looking man, who, judging by his obvious bewilderment, had set foot for the first time upon a craft larger than a coastal pleasure steamer. Mostyn put him down as a country innkeeper, since he bore a strong resemblance to the host of the "Blue Cow" at Trentham Regis.

After that the crowd on the gangway thickened, the swaying ladder creaking and groaning under the weight of this queue of humanity.

There were old men, young men; prosperous-looking men, poor-looking men; men with jovial lightheartedness written large upon their faces; others looking woebegone and dejected, as if regretting the past and dreading the future. There were men who might have been chosen as models in the role of Adonis; others who outvied in features the deepest Adelphi villain. Amongst the last of the arriving pa.s.sengers came a girl of about nineteen or twenty.

She was slim and _pet.i.te_. Although wearing a serviceable raincoat she carried herself gracefully, holding but lightly to the handrail of the ladder. Mostyn noticed that her moist hair was of a rich, brownish hue, her features finely modelled. Her eyes were of a deep grey hue, beneath a pair of evenly arched eyebrows.

In spite of the clammy fog her cheeks shone with the glow of youth--a healthy glow that told unfailingly of an active, outdoor life.

"Jolly pretty girl, that," commented Peter, communing with his own thoughts.

The very last pa.s.senger to come over the side--Peter paid no attention to him--was a young, athletic man carrying a travel-worn leather portmanteau. With the air of one accustomed to life on s.h.i.+pboard he stepped briskly off the end of the gangplank and made straight for the saloon.

On the pa.s.senger list he appeared as William Porter, of Durban. Not one of the _West Barbican's_ officers realized what viper the good s.h.i.+p was cheris.h.i.+ng in her bosom; for in Berlin William Porter would have answered readily and truthfully to the name of Ludwig Schoeffer.

CHAPTER IX

A Quiet Trick

Some of the incidents in this chapter are based upon actual facts recorded in _The Signal_. The author takes this opportunity to express his thanks to the editor of that journal for permission, readily granted, to make use of certain incidents here recorded.

Mostyn made his way to the wireless-cabin to find his two satellites standing by according to orders.

"Well, all right now?" asked Peter solicitously.

"Yes, sir," was the reply in unison.

"What did you have for dinner in your mess?" pursued Mostyn, addressing Partridge.

"B'iled mutton, sir; and it weren't 'arf good."

"Not 'arf," corroborated the other bird. "An' b'iled peas an'

dumplin's an' orl that."

"Right-o!" rejoined Peter briskly. "That shows you're both as fit as fiddles. We start sea routine at 10 p.m. You'll take on till four bells, Partridge----"

"Say, wot about my dinner?" objected the Watcher.

"Dinner?" repeated Mostyn, failing to grasp the reason of his subordinate's objection. "What's that got to do with it?"

"Dinner's at two bells, sir."

The Wireless Officer suppressed a desire to laugh.

"Four bells in the middle watch," explained Peter.

"That's 2 a.m. Surely to goodness you didn't expect to do a fourteen hours' trick? Plover, you relieve Partridge at four bells and carry on till I take over at eight bells--that's eight o'clock in the morning, not noon or four in the afternoon," he added caustically. "Got that?"

Yes, Messrs. Partridge and Plover had got that part all right.

"Now," continued Peter, "you know your duties. On no account touch the transmitter. Call me if there's any real need for it; and, don't forget, if you fall asleep on watch there'll be trouble."

Mostyn dismissed his a.s.sistants and donned the telephones. The _West Barbican_ had weighed and was creeping cautiously down London River, over which the fog still hung as thickly as ever.

He antic.i.p.ated a busy time. There were sure to be pa.s.sengers who wanted to send messages at belated hours; urgent radiograms from sh.o.r.e stations, and radiograms that weren't urgent, were bound to be coming in; while, in addition, he had to deal with calls from s.h.i.+ps and stations in the vicinity, and look out for time signals, weather reports, and possibly SOS and TTT warnings. Otherwise, save on approaching or departing from a port, the operator's work is light and at sea often approaching boredom.

Ten p.m. found the _West Barbican_ rounding the North Foreland. She had now increased speed to nine knots, the weather becoming clearer.

Hitherto, her pa.s.sage down the river as far as the Edinburgh Lights.h.i.+p had been perforce at a painful crawl of four to five knots, with her siren blaring incessantly.

Mostyn had seen nothing of the pa.s.sengers after their arrival. Being on duty he had missed dinner in the saloon. Not that he had missed much from a spectacular point of view, for most of the pa.s.sengers were absent from that meal. A good many, in fact, would fail to put in an appearance at meals for several days, giving the hard-worked stewards and stewardesses a strenuous time in consequence. The latter were at it already, judging by the frequent popping of soda-water-bottle corks and cries of varying intensity and vehemence for "steward".

The tindal had gone for'ard and rung four bells. Peter, with the telephones still on, waited for his relief. Five minutes pa.s.sed. He was beginning to think that the bird had played him false again, when Master Partridge's hobnailed boots were heard clattering on the bra.s.s-treaded ladder.

"Quite ready, boss," he observed genially.

Mostyn, without a word, handed him the telephones, repressing the desire to tick him off for unpunctuality. Then, waiting until the Watcher had adjusted the ear-pieces to his broad head, he wished Partridge "good night".

"Shall I turn in all standing?" he asked himself, as he switched on the light and surveyed his bunk. It was a bitterly cold night, for, with the partial dispersal of the fog, a cold nor'easter had sprung up. "A hundred to one I'll be routed out. Thank goodness we'll soon be in the Tropics!"

It did not take Peter long to turn in. For some minutes he lay awake thinking. He was far from easy in his mind concerning the Watcher on duty. In a congested waterway like the Straits of Dover and the English Channel--particularly in the vicinity of the Downs and off St.

Catherine's--wireless messages of great importance to the safety of the s.h.i.+p and her pa.s.sengers and crew might be sent; but would Partridge be alert enough to warn the _West Barbican's_ operator? Supposing the bird fell asleep on watch? It was all very well for Mostyn to say that if a disaster should occur it would be put down to the fault of the system. That was not good enough for a conscientious fellow like Peter.