mostyn awoke soon after daybreak, or rather was aroused by the appearance of mahmed with a cup of char in one hand and a copper jug full of hot water in the other.

it was a novel experience for peter to watch the deft movements of his servant, who seemed to possess an uncanny knowledge of where his master's personal belongings were stowed. mostyn's safety-razor, strop, shaving-pot, and soap were placed ready for use; his boots were shining with unusual brilliancy, even in the comparatively feeble rays of the electric lamp. his clothes, folded and pressed, were placed ready to put on. how and when mahmed had contrived to make these preparations without disturbing his master rather puzzled the wireless officer, for he considered himself a light sleeper.

breakfast was more or less a scrambled affair, many of the officers having to gulp down a cup of hot tea and hurry off to their appointed tasks, for the west barbican was sailing at noon, and there were multitudinous duties to be seen to before the ship was actually under way.

directly after breakfast peter hastened to the wireless cabin in order to put in an hour's uninterrupted work before the appearance of his two inefficient assistants. not that they would have worried him by asking questions, intelligent or otherwise. it was their wooden-faced passivity that peter found disturbing. he wondered by what manner of means such a quaint pair of birds was taken into the company's service.

at four bells—ten o'clock—mostyn had got his set into working order, and a quarter of an hour later the wireless inspector came on board to receive the radio-officer's report, and to satisfy himself that the installation was in every way efficient.

"i can give your little outfit a clean bill of health pretty quickly, mr. mostyn," remarked the inspector. "evidently your predecessor left you very little to do. once you've broken in your two watchers you ought to have a very soft time."

"i hope so," rejoined peter guardedly, but he had grave doubts on the subject. not that he wanted a "very soft time"—he was far too energetic for that—but because he felt convinced that his assistants were not cut out for the job.

at length a blast on the siren announced that the west barbican was about to leave the dock. peter left the cabin to watch the now familiar yet engrossing scene, familiar save for the fact that for the first time he had shipped with a crew of lascars. it was a strange sight to see the natives on the fo'c'sle, carrying out orders under the serang, and to watch a barefooted lascar go aloft, gripping the shrouds with hands and toes with equal facility.

under the gentle yet firm persuasion of a couple of fussy tugs the west barbican renewed her acquaintance with london river. there were no demonstrations at her departure. none of the officers had any relations or friends to wish them god-speed from the shore, and, since the passengers had not yet embarked, the usual display of farewells was not in evidence.

it was not until the ship entered sea reach that peter called his assistants.

"you, partridge, will take on now," he said. "plover, it's your watch below. you'd better see that you get some sleep. now, you know your duties, partridge?"

"yes, sir."

"right-o; carry on!"

partridge sat down and clipped on the telephones. peter left him, but promised himself to visit the cabin pretty frequently, to see that the watcher was watching. meanwhile he had plenty to do in the clerical line, filling up forms and making reports upon various technical matters.

half an hour later mostyn returned to the wireless-room. he was not surprised to find that master partridge was lying on the floor, having previously "mustered his bag" with the utmost impartiality. watcher no. 1 was down and out.

"the poor bounder can't help being sea-sick, but he ought to have been a little more considerate," soliloquized mostyn, after he had told the unhappy watcher to clear out and turn in. in fact, partridge was so bad that peter had to assist him down the ladder until he handed him over to the care of a lascar.

although the ship had not yet passed the nore she was rolling considerably, for there was a fresh wind on the starboard beam. evidently she was doing her best to live up to her reputation. but peter made light of the motion. with the telephones clipped to his head he sat in the open doorway of his "dog-box", watching the ever-changing seascape so far as a couple of boats in davits permitted.

when the hour arrived for watcher plover to take over the watch, that individual was not forthcoming. peter waited a full ten minutes and then told a seedee-boy to warn the absentee.

presently the indian messenger returned with a faint trace of a smile on his olivine features.

"no go, sahib," he announced. "he ill—very sick like to die."

mostyn shrugged his shoulders and "carried on". fortunately he had had a fairly good night's rest. the treble trick he could endure with equanimity, buoyed up by the hope that the indisposition of his two inefficient assistants would be of short duration, especially as the west barbican was due to berth in brocklington dock by six the next morning.

before long the weather began to get decidedly dirty. the haze that had been hanging over the coast had vanished, but to the east'ard banks of ragged-edged indigo-coloured clouds betokened a hard blow before very long. the wind, too, had backed from sou'-sou'-east to nor'-nor'-east, and was rapidly increasing in force.

the west barbican was not belying her reputation for rolling. in the wireless cabin, between forty and fifty feet above the sea, everything of a movable nature was slithering to and fro with each long-drawn oscillation of the ship. more than once peter had to grip the table to prevent his chair sliding bodily across the deck. the wind was thrumming through the shrouds, and whistling through the still open scuttles, while the aerial vibrated like a tuning fork in the shrieking blast.

it was one of those sudden gales that play havoc with small craft, especially in the comparatively shallow waters of the north sea; but, although peter kept a vigilant look out for sos signals, the air was remarkably free from radio calls. at intervals he could hear a peculiar buzzing in the ear-pieces—a noise that he knew from previous experience to be distant rain.

a shadow darkened the cabin. peter turned his head and saw anstey, the third officer, standing in the doorway. he was prepared for the storm, his head being partly concealed by a sou'wester, while a long oilskin coat and a pair of india-rubber boots completed the visible portion of his rig-out.

"hello, sparks!" he exclaimed. "how goes it? anything doing?"

"absolutely nothing," replied mostyn. "everything's as quiet as the proverbial lamb. i suppose——"

he broke off suddenly.

anstey made some remark, but the wireless officer took not the slightest notice. already he had snatched up a pencil and was scribbling upon the ever-ready pad.

it was a ttt or urgent warning signal. mostyn wrote it down mechanically without knowing its import, but the third officer, looking over peter's shoulder, made a grimace as he deciphered the other's scrawl:

"cq de gnf—ttt—mine warning—s.s. two-step reports 1630 sighting two mines, lat. 53° 20' 15", long. 1° 5' 30" east stop mines just awash barnacle covered apparently connected by hawser—end of message."

"by jove!" exclaimed anstey. "just our luck. right in our course, an' it's my blessed watch."