"Thatcher, old son," he exclaimed, as he encountered one of the junior engineers. "Lend me your torch, there's a good sort. I've scuppered mine."
Thatcher fumbled in the pocket of his dungarees.
"Here you are, you careless blighter," he replied. "Skylarking, I suppose? Well, take care of my gadget, anyway."
Again Anstey descended the hold and completed his survey. The clang of shifting steel had ceased.
When, after an hour's absence, he regained the bridge, Preston was not to be seen, but the skipper spotted the dishevelled youth and sung out to him.
"Well?" queried the Old Man.
"All correct, sir," reported Anstey. "The——"
"Good," rejoined the Captain, without waiting for the Third's explanation. "Carry on."
Anstey turned away to "carry on". It was his watch below. The job in No. 1 hold was merely an extra. He was still feeling the effects of his desperate efforts in the confined space, and the idea of turning in before he had had a "breather" did not appeal to him.
On the lee side of the bridge he encountered Mostyn.