He could see Olive's face flush under the selfish rudeness of the parvenue, but the girl, repressing her impulse to reply heatedly, remained silent.
A stiff glass of brandy, and the sound sleep resulting from it, had kept Mrs. Shallop in ignorance of her narrow escape from death in the disaster to the West Barbican. She was in the habit of consuming the contents of a bottle of strong waters per week. "By Dr. Selwyn's orders," she would explain. "He says I must have it, and it must be the very best." And Selwyn was never more astonished than when he heard of the prescription that was attributed to him. When the ship shook under the explosion a steward had rushed to Mrs. Shallop's cabin, and, unceremoniously dragging that lady from her bunk, had carried her along the alleyway to the companion ladder. Here the lady promptly collapsed. Meanwhile Mr. Shallop, who had been in the smoking-room, had gone on deck. In the darkness he saw nothing of his wife, and concluded that she was amongst the first to get away in the boats. At which he congratulated himself. He was spared the ordeal of being cooped up with Mrs. Shallop, who would to a certainty vent her anger upon him for having taken the sea voyage, although it was entirely on her suggestion that the ill-assorted couple booked passages on the S.S. West Barbican.
"This isn't going to be a picnic, I can see," soliloquized Peter, as he glanced to wind'ard. "It's up to me to do something now. I wonder if the Old Man would have logged me for this? Decent old chap, Bullock. I suppose he's gone."
Mostyn was steering due east by compass. He had no idea of the magnetic variation in this part of the Indian Ocean, neither had he any knowledge of the deviation of that particular compass. By steering due east he was hoping to effect a landing between the north and south of Madagascar—a fairly generous target of 1000 miles in length.
It was responsibility with a vengeance. Not only had the Wireless Officer to take over executive duties; he had to navigate the boat, regulate the supply of food and water, and maintain discipline until such times as Preston recovered and was able to take command. Judging by the injured man's appearance that day was still very remote.
Meanwhile Peter Mostyn, hiked by fate into the joys and difficulties of command, accepted the situation with typical British grit.
"I'll just carry on and make the best of it," he decided. "It won't be for want of trying if I don't get the boat safely to shore."