For a brief instant Peter was assailed by the dread that the envelope would contain a stereotyped announcement to the effect that his application was still under consideration; then a look of undisguised relief and gratification overspread his tanned features.
"Yes, Mrs. Young!" he exclaimed; "I'm off in three days' time. Where? I hardly know, but I rather fancy it's East Africa. Good evening."
Leaving the postmistress to spread the news amongst the good folk of Trentham Regis—a feat that she would certainly accomplish to her unbounded satisfaction before the post office closed for the night—Peter mounted his motor-bicycle and rode after the fashion of the long departed Jehu, the son of Nimshi, leaving behind him a long trail of chalky dust in the still evening air. Short of wireless it was doubtful whether the good news could have reached "The Pines" in less time, for within the space of five and a half minutes Peter had covered the three miles that separated his home from Trentham Regis.
"Hello, Mater!" he exclaimed, bursting into the house like a young typhoon. "Where are you? Ah, there you are! I've got it!"
There was no need for Mrs. Mostyn to ask for further enlightenment upon the cryptic "it". She guessed the news at once.
"I'm so glad, Peter!" she exclaimed. "What ship this time?"
"The West Barbican, Mater. I fancy she's one of the Blue Crescent Line. If so, it's East Africa and possibly India, this trip. 'Tany rate, I'm to join her before noon on Thursday. Where's the Pater?"
"Not back from town yet. There was a board meeting on this afternoon."
"Oh yes, I remember. About the Kilba Protectorate contract. I suppose he'll return by the 8.50.... By Jove! What a topping stunt! Fancy getting a ship again after all this time. Of course, Mother, it was nice to be home again, but, after all, it's a jolly long time to be kicking one's heels on the beach, isn't it?"
Mrs. Mostyn agreed, but solely upon her son's account. She was in no hurry to send her boy to sea again, but she realized that it was for his good that he should once more adventure upon the ocean. Coming of a seafaring family that for generations past had sent its sons down to the sea in ships—often never to return—she realized more than a good many mothers what was meant by the call of the great waters. She had drunk deeply of the cup of sorrow when the S.S. Donibristle, of which Peter was wireless officer, had been reported overdue and missing, and was afterwards given out by Lloyd's as a total loss. And in due course Peter had returned home, modestly making light of his hairbreadth adventures, his chief complaint being that the Broughborough International Marine Telegraph Company had not thought fit to appoint him to a ship belonging to the same fleet as did the S.S. Donibristle.