Captain Mostyn laughed.
"Yes, it was very funny," he replied. "We were all deep in business when there was a jolly old crash, and before we realized it there was a man—a workman—spread-eagled on the table. Winterton and Forsyth helped him up and asked if he were hurt. ''Urt?' he remarked bitterly. 'Not 'arf.' But he was able to walk without assistance. It seems that he was engaged in overhauling the electric-light fittings in the office over ours, and something carried away and let him down. It might have been worse.... Have you your kit ready?"
"Almost," was the rejoinder. "I'll have to go up to town on Wednesday, because my tropical outfit wants renewing. So we're to run round to Brocklington?"
"Yes," replied Captain Mostyn. "We've made arrangements for the steelwork to be shipped from there. Saves a lot of trouble sending it to East India Docks. We gain on the estimate that way, although, of course, we are practically chartering the West Barbican for two or three days."
At ten on the following Thursday Peter Mostyn boarded the West Barbican. The ship was of about 7000 tons, single funnelled, and with two stumpy masts with telescopic topmasts and a sheaf of derricks to each. She was still coaling and her decks were deep in grimy dust. With the exception of the officers the ship was manned by lascars—a novelty so far as Peter was concerned.
A burly, jovial-featured man in a grimy uniform, and wearing a muffler under the turned-up collar of his tunic, greeted Mostyn as he stepped off the gangplank.
"Hello, you're our Sparks, aren't you?" inquired the man. "My name's Preston when it's not Salthorse. Just now it ought to be Coaldust. I'll take you along to see the Old Man, and, when he's done with you, come to me for the keys of the wireless cabin. I'm Acting Chief."
Picking his way between coal-bags, dodging knots of bizarrely clad lascars, who with shrill cries dragged the sacks of fuel to the bunker shoots, Peter followed the Acting Chief Officer to the for'ard end of the boat-deck, where the skipper of the S.S. West Barbican had his cabin. Over the jalousied door was a brass plate with the word "Captain"; just below the plate was a card on which appeared, in bold and rather straggling handwriting, the intimation: "Don't knock—come in."
"Carry on, old son," urged Preston—and left Peter to his own devices.
For a brief instant Peter hesitated. Then, force of habit gaining the ascendancy, he knocked discreetly upon the white-enamelled door.