"now, pater, tell me how you got on in town," prompted peter.

"famously! the inspector's report laid special emphasis upon the excellence of the castings, and i've no doubt that the final tests will be equally successful. we also secured very reasonable freightage. the west barbican is not a fast vessel—fifteen knots is, i believe, her limit—but she will be able to deliver the goods well in advance of the time specified. it is certainly remarkable, peter, that you should have been appointed to that same craft."

"i'm jolly glad," replied peter. "it's about time i went afloat again. it looks as if i'm giving this winter a miss, eh? by the by, didn't you say something about a fellow tumbling through the ceiling?"

captain mostyn laughed.

"yes, it was very funny," he replied. "we were all deep in business when there was a jolly old crash, and before we realized it there was a man—a workman—spread-eagled on the table. winterton and forsyth helped him up and asked if he were hurt. ''urt?' he remarked bitterly. 'not 'arf.' but he was able to walk without assistance. it seems that he was engaged in overhauling the electric-light fittings in the office over ours, and something carried away and let him down. it might have been worse.... have you your kit ready?"

"almost," was the rejoinder. "i'll have to go up to town on wednesday, because my tropical outfit wants renewing. so we're to run round to brocklington?"

"yes," replied captain mostyn. "we've made arrangements for the steelwork to be shipped from there. saves a lot of trouble sending it to east india docks. we gain on the estimate that way, although, of course, we are practically chartering the west barbican for two or three days."

at ten on the following thursday peter mostyn boarded the west barbican. the ship was of about 7000 tons, single funnelled, and with two stumpy masts with telescopic topmasts and a sheaf of derricks to each. she was still coaling and her decks were deep in grimy dust. with the exception of the officers the ship was manned by lascars—a novelty so far as peter was concerned.

a burly, jovial-featured man in a grimy uniform, and wearing a muffler under the turned-up collar of his tunic, greeted mostyn as he stepped off the gangplank.

"hello, you're our sparks, aren't you?" inquired the man. "my name's preston when it's not salthorse. just now it ought to be coaldust. i'll take you along to see the old man, and, when he's done with you, come to me for the keys of the wireless cabin. i'm acting chief."

picking his way between coal-bags, dodging knots of bizarrely clad lascars, who with shrill cries dragged the sacks of fuel to the bunker shoots, peter followed the acting chief officer to the for'ard end of the boat-deck, where the skipper of the s.s. west barbican had his cabin. over the jalousied door was a brass plate with the word "captain"; just below the plate was a card on which appeared, in bold and rather straggling handwriting, the intimation: "don't knock—come in."

"carry on, old son," urged preston—and left peter to his own devices.

for a brief instant peter hesitated. then, force of habit gaining the ascendancy, he knocked discreetly upon the white-enamelled door.

"what are you hanging on to the slack for?" demanded a bull voice. "where are your blessed deadlights? can't you read?"

the wireless officer opened the door and stepped briskly into the cabin.

sitting in an arm-chair in front of a table littered with books and papers was a short, thick-set, bearded man. he was in his shirt-sleeves; a salt-stained uniform cap was perched on the back of his head, leaving exposed a wide, vein-traced forehead bordered on either side by closely cropped grey hair. his complexion was a dusky red, while his choleric blue eyes peered beneath a pair of beetling bushy eyebrows.

this was mostyn's first impression of captain antonius bullock, master of the good ship west barbican.

"no doubt his bark is worse than his bite," soliloquized peter, then, aloud, he said:

"i wish to report for duty, sir."

"another time you come into my cabin do as you're told," growled the old man. "can't waste my breath telling people to come in—may want it badly some day. where's your permanent discharge book?"

mostyn had the article ready to hand—one of those thin, blue-covered booklets which, according to board of trade regulations, must be in the possession of every officer and man of the british mercantile marine. it is his passport through life as long as he remains under the red ensign, and corresponds with the parchment certificate of the royal navy.

"'report of character: for ability, very good; for general conduct, very good'," read the old man aloud. "let's hope that'll continue. hello! what's this: last ship the donibristle. i hope i haven't shipped a jonah."

"i hope not too, sir," agreed mostyn.

"carry on, then," was the brief rejoinder, and the introductory interview terminated.

truth to tell, captain antonius bullock was not particularly fond of wireless operators. this antipathy was not due to the individual but to the system. although wireless officers came under the captain's orders for disciplinary purposes, they were governed by the rules and regulations of the wireless company who employed them. consequently it was possible, and often probable, that the old man might issue an order to the radio staff that ran directly counter to the wireless regulations; and, if the skipper were short-tempered and disinclined to listen to explanations, matters would come to a climax by the wireless officer flatly but firmly declining to carry out the old man's behests.

on the previous voyage such an incident had actually occurred. captain bullock had given an impossible order—impossible according to the wireless operator's reading of the regulations. the old man lost his temper and told the operator to work double watches for the rest of the voyage; the latter retaliated by "logging" the skipper. this drastic step rather frightened the choleric bullock, especially when, on further consideration, he found that he was in the wrong. before the west barbican arrived in london river, skipper and wireless operator had a private and amicable conversation, with the result that the latter expunged the offending record from the log. but the matter still rankled in captain antonius bullock's broad bosom, and, since he could not consign the system to perdition, he vented his resentment upon the wireless officers under his command.

there was no denying captain bullock's qualifications as a seaman. he was courageous, resourceful, skilful, and, withal, cautious. he had been at sea for more than thirty-five years, having served his apprenticeship in a square-rigged ship and worked his way up through that roughest of rough schools—the south american cattle-boats—to his present responsible position of senior captain of the blue crescent line.

outside the captain's cabin peter was met by a tall, slim hindustani wearing a blue dungaree suit, a pair of straw-plaited shoes, and a red "pill-box" hat.

with oriental obeisance, yet not without a certain display of dignity, the "boy" salaamed.

"me mahmed, sahib. me you boy," he announced.

peter regarded his new acquaintance critically. mahmed was a madrasi of about twenty years of age, with features handsome in an oriental way. in spite of his weird attire—for during coaling operations the native crew had discarded their smart but serviceable uniforms—there was something about the youth that impressed his new master favourably.

"want char, sahib?"

the word "char" was not a stranger to peter mostyn. of eastern derivation, and meaning "tea", it has been adopted by britons in all quarters of the globe; and even in flanders and the north of france peasants have learned the word.

receiving an affirmative reply, mahmed glided noiselessly away, while peter set out to find the acting chief officer and obtain the keys of the wireless room.

"so the old man hasn't chawed you up?" remarked preston, with a broad grin. "he's not a bad old lad when you know him. what's your name?"

peter enlightened him.

"dash it all!" exclaimed the acting chief. "i've heard of you, young fellah-me-lad! weren't you in that donibristle stunt? we've shipped a pukka hero this trip."

"don't know about that," protested peter. "the old man has just told me i'm a jonah."