class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">The End of S.S. "West Barbican"

XXII.   A Night of Horror XXIII.   Peter takes Charge of Things XXIV.   Tidings from the Sea XXV.   Riding it Out XXVI.   Mostyn's Watch XXVII.   Aground XXVIII.   The Island XXIX.   Repairs and Renewals XXX.   The Voyage is Resumed XXXI.   Picked up at Sea XXXII.   The Dhow XXXIII.   A Fight to a Finish XXXIV.   Olive Deals with the Situation XXXV.   The End of the Voyage XXXVI.   A Round of Surprises XXXVII.   How the Steelwork Arrived XXXVIII.   The Completion of the Contract

Illustrations

The Lascars bundled the bodies into the life-boat . . . . Frontispiece

The two men disappeared over the side of the ship

He began to turn the locking device, slowly and firmly

Two to one

THE WIRELESS OFFICER

CHAPTER I

Good News

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Peter Mostyn. "Now, this does look like business."

"It does, Mr. Mostyn," agreed the postmistress. "It seems as if we are to lose you again."

"And about time too," added the youth, as he ripped open the long, buff-coloured envelope bearing the words "Broughborough International Marine Telegraph Company".

Peter Mostyn had been "on the beach" for nearly six months. In other words, he was out of a berth. Not that it was any fault of his that a promising and energetic young wireless officer should be without a ship for such a protracted period. An unprecedented slump in British shipping—when hundreds of vessels flying the Red Ensign were laid up, while the bulk of the world's trade was carried by the mercantile fleet of Germany—had resulted, amongst other ills, in the wholesale "sacking" of officers and men, who to a great extent had been the means of warding off the grim spectre of starvation during those black years of the World War.

Five times a week for over four months Peter Mostyn had ridden into Trentham Regis village in the hope of securing the long-expected missive giving him an appointment to another ship.

And now the anxiously awaited communication had arrived. The postmistress, a good, kindly soul to whom the affairs of every man, woman, and child in the Trentham Regis postal area were open secrets, was almost as excited as the recipient, when she handed the envelope over the counter between the piles of groceries that comprised the commercial side of the shop.

For a brief instant Peter was assailed by the dread that the envelope would contain a stereotyped announcement to the effect that his application was still under consideration; then a look of undisguised relief and gratification overspread his tanned features.

"Yes, Mrs. Young!" he exclaimed; "I'm off in three days' time. Where? I hardly know, but I rather fancy it's East Africa. Good evening."

Leaving the postmistress to spread the news amongst the good folk of Trentham Regis—a feat that she would certainly accomplish to her unbounded satisfaction before the post office closed for the night—Peter mounted his motor-bicycle and rode after the fashion of the long departed Jehu, the son of Nimshi, leaving behind him a long trail of chalky dust in the still evening air. Short of wireless it was doubtful whether the good news could have reached "The Pines" in less time,