"Peter had a pretty stiff time, judging from what he told me," observed Captain Mostyn. "Amongst other things he still bears the scars of eighteen wounds he received when the Donibristle's wireless-cabin was demolished by a shell."
"Eighteen, by Jove!" exclaimed Captain Bullock. "I had one—a beauty—in the war. Splinter from a four-inch shell when Fritz torpedoed the old Harkaway and fired on the boats. But eighteen!"
"Yes," commented Captain Mostyn. "He's seen more adventures during his short time in the Merchant Service than I did in thirty-seven years in the navy. During the whole of my sea service I never saw a shot fired in anger. Very good, I'll be on board at four o'clock to sign those papers. Do you mind giving my boy leave till then?"
Captain Bullock readily gave the required permission, and father and son had an enjoyable spell ashore.
By four o'clock most of the steelwork was safely stowed in the hold. Only a few crates of small parts remained to complete the all-important consignment for the Kilba Protectorate Government.
"That's all shipshape and Bristol-fashion, sir," remarked Captain Bullock, as the necessary signatures were appended to the papers in connection with the shipment. "If that precious lot isn't delivered safe and sound in Pangawani Harbour by the first of February it won't be the fault of Antonius Bullock."
CHAPTER VIII
The Passengers
At high water that night the S.S. West Barbican, drawing eighteen feet for'ard and twenty-four aft, left Brocklington Harbour, crossing the bar with less than five feet of water under her keel.