"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."
His first impression of the interior of the cabin was not a good one. The West Barbican had been laid up for nearly four months, and, although her late Sparks had conscientiously carried out his written instructions as to the precautions to be taken when "packing up", the prolonged period of idleness had not improved the appearance of the apparatus. In spite of a liberal coating of vaseline the brasswork was mottled with verdigris; moisture covered the ebonite and vulcanite keys; the roof had been leaking, the course of the water being indicated by a trail of iron rust upon the white paint.