Suddenly he was aroused by a hand grasping his shoulder. Only half awake the Wireless Officer sat up in his bunk, narrowly avoiding collision with the cork-cemented beam overhead.
"TTT, sir!" bellowed an excited voice.
For the present Peter was still hovering on the border-line 'twixt slumber and wakefulness. Somehow he had the idea in his brain that he was once more on board the S.S. Donibristle, and the officers' steward had brought him a cup of tea before going on watch.
"No, dash it all!" he expostulated. "I don't want tea now."
"TTT, sir! TTT!" repeated the disturber of Mostyn's peace.
Then Peter realized the situation. It was Watcher Partridge, almost falling over himself in his anxiety to proclaim the fact that at last he had had a call through of an important nature.
Tumbling out of his bunk, Peter slipped into his bridge coat, and hurried to the wireless-cabin, the Watcher, puffing and blowing, following hard on his heels.
Picking up the 'phones, Mostyn listened for a few seconds. Then he replaced the ear-pieces on the table.
"You'll have to do better than that next time," he observed caustically. "That's not TTT—nothing like it. It's North Foreland on our starboard quarter calling CQ. Tuning in, most likely."
Returning to his bunk, Peter noticed that it was now 11.15 p.m. There was still a chance of a good night's rest, he reflected.