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 pa.s.sport 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.

h.e.l.lo! 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."

CHAPTER IV

The Greenhorns

Armed with a bunch of keys, Peter made his way up several ladders until he gained the box-like structure bearing a bra.s.s plate inscribed "Wireless Cabin".

The erection was of solid construction, lighted by six bra.s.s-rimmed scuttles. The door, opening aft, was affording support to a couple of pale-faced, weedy-looking youths, who, on seeing Mostyn appear, made no attempt to shift their position, not even to the extent of removing their hands from their pockets.

The Wireless Officer realized at once who these lads were. Already he had had his suspicions on the point. The fact that he had received no intimation of the presence of a junior wireless operator rather prepared him for the discovery.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

The taller of the two boys glanced at his companion as if urging him to reply. Receiving no encouragement from that direction he gazed vacantly into s.p.a.ce.

"Bloke dahn there told us to 'ang on 'ere," he announced, in the sing-song voice of a city-bred, elementary schoolboy.

"We're Watchers," added his companion.

"Oh, are you?" rejoined Peter. "Then please to remember that when you are spoken to by an officer you will address him as 'sir'."

Mostyn was not sn.o.bbish--far from it, but the att.i.tude and tone of the pair went against the grain. It was the first time that he had found himself "up against" the genus Watcher, and the impression served to support the adverse reports he had heard of the general incompetence and uselessness of the cla.s.s.

"Watchers" were the outcome of an ill-advised step on the part of shipowners towards economy. A second-cla.s.s ship, such as the _West Barbican_, might carry either two trained and Government-certificated operators--men who were qualified in both the practical and technical side of radiography--or she might carry one operator and two Watchers.

The latter were simply and solely unskilled youths who were sent on board ship to "listen-in" for wireless messages. They took turns in putting on the telephones and waiting for wireless calls. All they could do--or were expected to do--was to recognize two call signals: the SOS and TTT, the latter an urgent general signal of lesser importance than the well-known call for aid. To the Watchers the Morse Code was a sealed book. Their occupation was of a blind-alley nature.

They could hardly hope to qualify as operators, lacking the apt.i.tude, intelligence, and opportunities for gaining their wireless ticket. In short, they were a cheap product whereby their employers sought to cut down expenses by dispensing with one of two wireless officers, regardless of the grave risk that an error on the part of these half-baked dabblers in radiography might endanger the ship.

As a cla.s.s, too, they were resented by the wireless staff proper. Not only would the employment of Watchers tend to diminish the numbers of _pukka_ wireless officers serving afloat; but the wireless officer on a ship carrying Watchers would be always on duty although not actually in the cabin. Instead of taking "tricks" with his "opposite number" he would be liable to be summoned by the Watchers on duty at any hour of the day or night, simply because his a.s.sistant could not, and would not be allowed to, receive or send out messages.

"Is this your first voyage?" asked Peter, addressing the taller Watcher.

"Yes," was the reply.

"Yes, what?" demanded Mostyn sharply.

"Yes, sir."

"That's better," continued Peter, as he unlocked the door, the two lads having summoned up enough physical energy to stand aside. "What's your name?"

"Partridge,"--pause--"sir."

"And yours?"

"Plover, sir."

"Weird birds," soliloquized Mostyn; "but perhaps they'll lick into shape."