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."

CHAPTER VI

A Night of Peril

Making his way to the chartroom the Third Officer "laid off" the position of the mines. His rough guess proved to be remarkably accurate. According to the position given, the source of danger was only a few miles from the Outer Dowsing Lightship, and the West Barbican had to pass close to the Outer Dowsing on her course to Brocklington.

Anstey's next step was to inform the Captain. The Old Man, a sailor to the backbone, was in the chart-house in a trice, where, after a brief but careful survey of tide-tables and current-drift charts, he was able to determine the approximate position of the floating mines when the ship would be in the immediate vicinity of the light-vessel. Allowing for the set and strength of the tide and the drift caused by the wind, between the time the mines were first sighted and the time when the West Barbican entered the danger-zone, he was able to assert that, if the ship's original course were maintained, she would pass at least ten miles to the east'ard of those most undesirable derelicts.

"I think we're O.K., Mr. Anstey," he remarked. "Besides, for all we know the mines might have been exploded by this time. Those naval Johnnies are pretty smart at that sort of thing. Well, carry on. Let me know if there are any supplementary warnings."

The Old Man returned to his cabin, and was soon deep in the pages of a novel; while Anstey resumed his trick, thanking his lucky stars that, unlike Mostyn's, his watch was not indefinitely prolonged through the shortcomings of two sea-sick "birds".

Just as darkness set in, the gale was at its height. Clouds of spray flew over the bridge as the old hooker wallowed and nosed her way through the steep, crested waves, for the wind had backed still more and was now dead in her teeth.

Even in the wireless-cabin the noise was terrific. The boats in davits were creaking and groaning, as they strained against their gripes with each disconcerting jerk of the ship. Spray in sheets rattled upon the tightly stretched boat-covers like volleys of small shot, while the monotonous clank-clank of the steam steering-gear, as the secuni (native quartermaster) strove to keep the ship within half a degree of her course, added to the turmoil that penetrated the four steel walls of the cabin.

Vainly Peter tried to concentrate his thoughts on a book. Yet, in spite of the fact that he was wearing telephones clipped to his ears, the hideous clamour refused to be suppressed. Reading under these conditions was out of the question. He put away the book and remained keeping his weary watch, valiantly combating an almost overwhelming desire for sleep.