"What are you hanging on to the slack for?" demanded a bull voice. "Where are your blessed deadlights? Can't you read?"
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 passport 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. Hello! what's this: last ship the Donibristle. I hope I haven't shipped a Jonah."
"I hope not too, sir," agreed Mostyn.