CHAPTER III
Reporting for Duty
"Now, Pater, tell me how you got on in town," prompted Peter.
"Famously! The inspector's report laid special emphasis upon theexcellence of the castings, and I've no doubt that the final tests willbe equally successful. We also secured very reasonable freightage.The _West Barbican_ is not a fast vessel--fifteen knots is, I believe,her limit--but she will be able to deliver the goods well in advance ofthe time specified. It is certainly remarkable, Peter, that you shouldhave been appointed to that same craft."
"I'm jolly glad," replied Peter. "It's about time I went afloat again.It looks as if I'm giving this winter a miss, eh? By the by, didn'tyou say something about a fellow tumbling through the ceiling?"
Captain Mostyn laughed.
"Yes, it was very funny," he replied. "We were all deep in businesswhen there was a jolly old crash, and before we realized it there was aman--a workman--spread-eagled on the table. Winterton and Forsythhelped him up and asked if he were hurt. ''Urt?' he remarked bitterly.'Not 'arf.' But he was able to walk without assistance. It seems thathe was engaged in overhauling the electric-light fittings in the officeover ours, and something carried away and let him down. It might havebeen worse.... Have you your kit ready?"
"Almost," was the rejoinder. "I'll have to go up to town on Wednesday,because my tropical outfit wants renewing. So we're to run round toBrocklington?"
"Yes," replied Captain Mostyn. "We've made arrangements for thesteelwork to be shipped from there. Saves a lot of trouble sending itto East India Docks. We gain on the estimate that way, although, ofcourse, we are practically chartering the _West Barbican_ for two orthree days."
At ten on the following Thursday Peter Mostyn boarded the _WestBarbican_. The ship was of about 7000 tons, single funnelled, and withtwo stumpy masts with telescopic topmasts and a sheaf of derricks toeach. She was still coaling and her decks were deep in grimy dust.With the exception of the officers the ship was manned by lascars--anovelty so far as Peter was concerned.
A burly, jovial-featured man in a grimy uniform, and wearing a mufflerunder the turned-up collar of his tunic, greeted Mostyn as he steppedoff the gangplank.
"Hello, you're our Sparks, aren't you?" inquired the man. "My name'sPreston when it's not Salthorse. Just now it ought to be Coaldust.I'll take you along to see the Old Man, and, when he's done with you,come to me for the keys of the wireless cabin. I'm Acting Chief."
Picking his way between coal-bags, dodging knots of bizarrely cladlascars, who with shrill cries dragged the sacks of fuel to the bunkershoots, Peter followed the Acting Chief Officer to the for'ard end ofthe boat-deck, where the skipper of the S.S. _West Barbican_ had hiscabin. Over the jalousied door was a brass plate with the word"Captain"; just below the plate was a card on which appeared, in boldand rather straggling handwriting, the intimation: "Don't knock--comein."
"Carry on, old son," urged Preston--and left Peter to his own devices.
For a brief instant Peter hesitated. Then, force of habit gaining theascendancy, he knocked discreetly upon the white-enamelled door.
"What are you hanging on to the slack for?" demanded a bull voice."Where are your blessed deadlights? Can't you read?"
The Wireless Officer opened the door and stepped briskly into the cabin.
Sitting in an arm-chair in front of a table littered with books andpapers was a short, thick-set, bearded man. He was in hisshirt-sleeves; a salt-stained uniform cap was perched on the back ofhis head, leaving exposed a wide, vein-traced forehead bordered oneither side by closely cropped grey hair. His complexion was a duskyred, while his choleric blue eyes peered beneath a pair of beetlingbushy eyebrows.
This was Mostyn's first impression of Captain Antonius Bullock, masterof the good ship _West Barbican_.
"No doubt his bark is worse than his bite," soliloquized Peter, then,aloud, he said:
"I wish to report for duty, sir."
"Another time you come into my cabin do as you're told," growled theOld Man. "Can't waste my breath telling people to come in--may want itbadly some day. Where's your permanent discharge book?"
Mostyn had the article ready to hand--one of those thin, blue-coveredbooklets which, according to Board of Trade Regulations, must be in thepossession of every officer and man of the British Mercantile Marine.It is his passport through life as long as he remains under the RedEnsign, and corresponds with the parchment certificate of the RoyalNavy.
"'Report of character: for ability, very good; for general conduct,very good'," read the Old Man aloud. "Let's hope that'll continue.Hello! what's this: last ship the _Donibristle_. I hope I haven'tshipped a Jonah."
"I hope not too, sir," agreed Mostyn.
"Carry on, then," was the brief rejoinder, and the introductoryinterview terminated.
Truth to tell, Captain Antonius Bullock was not particularly fond ofwireless operators. This antipathy was not due to the individual butto the system. Although wireless officers came under the captain'sorders for disciplinary purposes, they were governed by the rules andregulations of the wireless company who employed them. Consequently itwas possible, and often probable, that the Old Man might issue an orderto the radio staff that ran directly counter to the wirelessregulations; and, if the skipper were short-tempered and disinclined tolisten to explanations, matters would come to a climax by the wirelessofficer flatly but firmly declining to carry out the Old Man's behests.
On the previous voyage such an incident had actually occurred. CaptainBullock had given an impossible order--impossible according to thewireless operator's reading of the regulations. The Old Man lost histemper and told the operator to work double watches for the rest of thevoyage; the latter retaliated by "logging" the skipper. This drasticstep rather frightened the choleric Bullock, especially when, onfurther consideration, he found that he was in the wrong. Before the_West Barbican_ arrived in London River, skipper and wireless operatorhad a private and amicable conversation, with the result that thelatter expunged the offending record from the log. But the matterstill rankled in Captain Antonius Bullock's broad bosom, and, since hecould not consign the system to perdition, he vented his resentmentupon the wireless officers under his command.
There was no denying Captain Bullock's qualifications as a seaman. Hewas courageous, resourceful, skilful, and, withal, cautious. He hadbeen at sea for more than thirty-five years, having served hisapprenticeship in a square-rigged ship and worked his way up throughthat roughest of rough schools--the South American cattle-boats--to hispresent responsible position of senior captain of the Blue CrescentLine.
Outside the captain's cabin Peter was met by a tall, slim Hindustaniwearing a blue dungaree suit, a pair of straw-plaited shoes, and a red"pill-box" hat.
With Oriental obeisance, yet not without a certain display of dignity,the "boy" salaamed.
"Me Mahmed, sahib. Me you boy," he announced.
Peter regarded his new acquaintance critically. Mahmed was a Madrasiof about twenty years of age, with features handsome in an Orientalway. In spite of his weird attire--for during coaling operations thenative crew had discarded their smart but serviceable uniforms--therewas something about the youth that impressed his new master favourably.
"Want _char_, sahib?"
The word "char" was not a stranger to Peter Mostyn. Of Easternderivation, and meaning "tea", it has been adopted by Britons in allquarters of the globe; and even in Flanders and the north of Francepeasants have learned the word.
Receiving an affirmative reply, Mahmed glided noiselessly away, whilePeter set out to find the Acting Chief Officer and obtain the keys ofthe wireless room.
"So the Old Man hasn't chawed you up?" remarked Preston, with a broadgrin. "He's not a bad old lad when you know him. What's your name?"
Peter enlightened him.
"Dash it all!" exclaimed the Acting Chief. "I've heard of you, youngfellah-me-lad! Weren't you in that _Donibristle_ stunt? We've shipped
a _pukka_ hero this trip."
"Don't know about that," protested Peter. "The Old Man has just toldme I'm a Jonah."