"Not so bad," he conceded modestly, as he surveyed the array of glittering brasswork and polished vulcanite. "I'll leave the actual tuning up and testing till to-morrow. Buzz off, you fellows. You won't be wanted until two bells in the forenoon watch."
Locking the door, Mostyn made his way to his own quarters. His cabin was of the usual double-berth type, one bunk being superimposed immediately above the other. In this instance he was the sole occupant of the cabin, and rather grimly he commented upon the saying that it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Had he not been called upon to endure Messrs. Partridge and Plover, he would have had to the share cramped quarters with another wireless officer.
In the adjoining cabins the jaded occupants were busily engaged in removing the traces left by their arduous labours. The coaling operation had been completed. The bunkers had been trimmed, decks washed down, and the hideous but necessary coaling-screens stowed away. Yet the ship reeked of coal-dust. The alleyways seemed stiff with it. It penetrated even into the locked and carefully curtained cabins and saloons.
On board the S.S. West Barbican there was nothing in the way of formal introduction. A newly joined officer simply "blew in" and made himself at home. When off duty the fellows were more like a pack of jolly schoolboys than men on whose shoulders rested a tremendous weight of responsibility. They accepted a newcomer as one of themselves, and, unless he were an out-and-out bounder, soon set him entirely at his ease.
In vain Peter scanned the features of his new shipmates in the hope of recognizing a familiar face. For the most part the officers had been on board for lengthy periods, the interval of idleness notwithstanding. They were a conservative crowd in the Blue Crescent Line, and, since Mostyn had served on vessels plying between Vancouver, Japan, and China, he was not surprised, although disappointed, to find that his hopes were not realized.
"Have we got our orders yet?" inquired the Chief Engineer, addressing the Acting Chief Officer, who, in the absence of the skipper, was sitting at the head of the long table.
"Yes," replied Preston. "We're off to a place called Brocklington, on the East Coast, to pick up the bulk of our cargo—steelwork, worse luck. Next to iron ore I know of nothing worse. It'll make the old hooker roll like a barrel. After that we return to Gravesend on Monday, pick up our passengers, and then away down Channel. Let's hope we don't see London River again until shipping looks up considerably. I've had enough of kicking my heels on the beach, and I guess you have too. Once we go East the owners aren't likely to send us home in ballast."
"Dull times these, especially after the war," remarked Anstey, the Third Officer. "Even those pirate stunts in the Atlantic and Pacific are a wash-out."
"Which reminds me," added Preston, indicating the modest Mostyn. "Our Sparks here was in the Donibristle when that Porfirio blighter collared her. For first-hand information apply to our young friend here."
So Peter had to relate briefly the hazardous adventures of the crew of his former ship, after they had been taken into captivity by the swashbuckling pirate Ramon Porfirio. Before the evening was over he felt as if he had known his new messmates for ages.