his written instructions as to the precautions to be taken when "packing up", the prolonged period of idleness had not improved the appearance of the apparatus. In spite of a liberal coating of vaseline the brasswork was mottled with verdigris; moisture covered the ebonite and vulcanite keys; the roof had been leaking, the course of the water being indicated by a trail of iron rust upon the white paint.

Dust covered everything, while the absence of fresh air, owing to the scuttles having been secured for months, was distressingly noticeable.

"Phew! What a reek!" exclaimed Peter, stepping backwards into the open and nearly colliding with the impassive Mahmed.

"Char, sahib."

Mostyn gulped down the hot beverage, and literally girded up his loins for direct action.

"Nip below," he ordered, addressing the still torpid Partridge. "Get hold of a bucket of hot water, a squeegee, and some swabs. Look lively, Plover; get busy with those scuttles. Open all of them. Scuttles, man; those round glass windows, if you like."

Watcher Plover tackled his allotted task with a zest that rather surprised his superior officer, but it was not until five minutes later that Peter found the Watcher trying to unbolt the brass rims instead of unthreading the locking screw.

"Belay there," exclaimed Mostyn. "Don't take the whole of the cabin down. Let me show——"

His words were interrupted by a metallic clatter followed by sounds of falling water. Watcher Partridge's hob-nailed boots had slipped on the brass treads of the ladder, and he had finished up ingloriously upon the deck, sprawling upon his back in a puddle of coal-grimed water.

While the unlucky Partridge was making a prolonged change and refit, Mostyn with his other assistant tackled the demon dirt in his lair. Not until the dust was removed and the paint-work and floor well scrubbed and dried did Peter begin to overhaul the "set".

The dull daylight faded and gave place to night, but still the indefatigable wireless operator carried on, until the bell summoning the officers to dinner warned him that it was time to knock off.

"Not so bad," he conceded modestly, as he surveyed the array of glittering brasswork and polished vulcanite. "I'll leave the actual tuning up and testing till to-morrow. Buzz off, you fellows. You won't be wanted until two bells in the forenoon watch."

Locking the door, Mostyn made his way to his own quarters. His cabin was of the usual double-berth type, one bunk being superimposed immediately above the other. In this instance he was the sole occupant of the cabin, and rather grimly he commented upon the saying that it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Had he not been called upon to endure Messrs. Partridge and Plover, he would have had to the share cramped quarters with another wireless officer.

In the adjoining cabins the jaded occupants were busily engaged in removing the traces left by their arduous labours. The coaling operation had been completed. The bunkers had been trimmed, decks washed down, and the hideous but necessary coaling-screens stowed away. Yet the ship reeked of coal-dust. The alleyways seemed stiff with it. It penetrated even into the locked and carefully curtained cabins and saloons.

On board the S.S. West Barbican there was nothing in the way of formal introduction. A newly joined officer simply "blew in" and made himself at home. When off duty the fellows were more like a pack of jolly schoolboys than men on whose shoulders rested a tremendous weight of responsibility. They accepted a newcomer as one of themselves, and, unless he were an out-and-out bounder, soon set him entirely at his ease.

In vain Peter scanned the features of his new shipmates in the hope of recognizing a familiar face. For the most part the officers had been on board for lengthy periods, the interval of idleness notwithstanding. They were a conservative crowd in the Blue Crescent Line, and, since Mostyn had served on vessels plying between Vancouver, Japan, and China, he was not surprised, although disappointed, to find that his hopes were not realized.

"Have we got our orders yet?" inquired the Chief Engineer, addressing the Acting Chief Officer, who, in the absence of the skipper, was sitting at the head of the long table.

"Yes," replied Preston. "We're off to a place called Brocklington, on the East Coast, to pick up the bulk of our cargo—steelwork, worse luck. Next to iron ore I know of nothing worse. It'll make the old hooker roll like a barrel. After that we return to Gravesend on Monday, pick up our passengers, and then away down Channel. Let's hope we don't see London River again until shipping looks up considerably. I've had enough of kicking my heels on the beach, and I guess you have too. Once we go East the owners aren't likely to send us home in ballast."

"Dull times these, especially after the war," remarked Anstey, the Third Officer. "Even those pirate stunts in the Atlantic and Pacific are a wash-out."

"Which reminds me," added Preston, indicating the modest Mostyn. "Our Sparks here was in the Donibristle when that Porfirio blighter collared her. For first-hand information apply to our young friend here."

So Peter had to relate briefly the hazardous adventures of the crew of his former ship, after they had been taken into captivity by the swashbuckling pirate Ramon Porfirio. Before the evening was over he felt as if he had known his new messmates for ages.

CHAPTER V

Under Way

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