"That's 2 a.m. Surely to goodness you didn't expect to do a fourteen hours' trick? Plover, you relieve Partridge at four bells and carry on till I take over at eight bells—that's eight o'clock in the morning, not noon or four in the afternoon," he added caustically. "Got that?"
Yes, Messrs. Partridge and Plover had got that part all right.
"Now," continued Peter, "you know your duties. On no account touch the transmitter. Call me if there's any real need for it; and, don't forget, if you fall asleep on watch there'll be trouble."
Mostyn dismissed his assistants and donned the telephones. The West Barbican had weighed and was creeping cautiously down London River, over which the fog still hung as thickly as ever.
He anticipated a busy time. There were sure to be passengers who wanted to send messages at belated hours; urgent radiograms from shore stations, and radiograms that weren't urgent, were bound to be coming in; while, in addition, he had to deal with calls from ships and stations in the vicinity, and look out for time signals, weather reports, and possibly SOS and TTT warnings. Otherwise, save on approaching or departing from a port, the operator's work is light and at sea often approaching boredom.
Ten p.m. found the West Barbican rounding the North Foreland. She had now increased speed to nine knots, the weather becoming clearer. Hitherto, her passage down the river as far as the Edinburgh Lightship had been perforce at a painful crawl of four to five knots, with her siren blaring incessantly.
Mostyn had seen nothing of the passengers after their arrival. Being on duty he had missed dinner in the saloon. Not that he had missed much from a spectacular point of view, for most of the passengers were absent from that meal. A good many, in fact, would fail to put in an appearance at meals for several days, giving the hard-worked stewards and stewardesses a strenuous time in consequence. The latter were at it already, judging by the frequent popping of soda-water-bottle corks and cries of varying intensity and vehemence for "steward".
The tindal had gone for'ard and rung four bells. Peter, with the telephones still on, waited for his relief. Five minutes passed. He was beginning to think that the bird had played him false again, when Master Partridge's hobnailed boots were heard clattering on the brass-treaded ladder.
"Quite ready, boss," he observed genially.
Mostyn, without a word, handed him the telephones, repressing the desire to tick him off for unpunctuality. Then, waiting until the Watcher had adjusted the ear-pieces to his broad head, he wished Partridge "good night".