Armed with a bunch of keys, Peter made his way up several ladders until he gained the box-like structure bearing a brass plate inscribed "Wireless Cabin".
The erection was of solid construction, lighted by six brass-rimmed scuttles. The door, opening aft, was affording support to a couple of pale-faced, weedy-looking youths, who, on seeing Mostyn appear, made no attempt to shift their position, not even to the extent of removing their hands from their pockets.
The Wireless Officer realized at once who these lads were. Already he had had his suspicions on the point. The fact that he had received no intimation of the presence of a junior wireless operator rather prepared him for the discovery.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
The taller of the two boys glanced at his companion as if urging him to reply. Receiving no encouragement from that direction he gazed vacantly into space.
"Bloke dahn there told us to \'ang on \'ere," he announced, in the sing-song voice of a city-bred, elementary schoolboy.
"We\'re Watchers," added his companion.
"Oh, are you?" rejoined Peter. "Then please to remember that when you are spoken to by an officer you will address him as \'sir\'."
Mostyn was not snobbish—far from it, but the attitude and tone of the pair went against the grain. It was the first time that he had found himself "up against" the genus Watcher, and the impression served to support the adverse reports he had heard of the general incompetence and uselessness of the class.
"Watchers" were the outcome of an ill-advised step on the part of shipowners towards economy. A second-class ship, such as the West Barbican, might carry either two trained and Government-certificated operators—men who were qualified in both the practical and technical side of radiography—or she might carry one operator and two Watchers.
The latter were simply and solely unskilled youths who were sent on board ship to "listen-in" for wireless messages. They took turns in putting on the telephones and waiting for wireless calls. All they could do—or were expected to do—was to recognize two call signals: the SOS and TTT, the latter an urgent general signal of lesser importance than the well-known call for aid. To the Watchers the Morse Code was a sealed book. Their occupation was of a blind-alley nature. They could hardly hope to qualify as operators, lacking the aptitude, intelligence, and opportunities for gaining their wireless ticket. In short, they were a cheap product whereby their employers sought to cut down expenses by dispensing with one of two wireless officers, regardless of the grave risk that an error on the part of these half-baked dabblers in radiography might endanger the ship.
As a class, too, they were resented by the wireless staff proper. Not only would the employment of Watchers tend to diminish the numbers of pukka wireless officers serving afloat; but the wireless officer on a ship carrying Watchers would be always on duty although not actually in the cabin. Instead of taking "tricks" with his "opposite number" he would be liable to be summoned by the Watchers on duty at any hour of the day or night, simply because his assistant could not, and would not be allowed to, receive or send out messages.
"Is this your first voyage?" asked Peter, addressing the taller Watcher.
"Yes," was the reply.
"Yes, what?" demanded Mostyn sharply.
"Yes, sir."
"That\'s better," continued Peter, as he unlocked the door, the two lads having summoned up enough physical energy to stand aside. "What\'s your name?"
"Partridge,"—pause—"sir."
"And yours?"
"Plover, sir."
"Weird birds," soliloquized Mostyn; "but perhaps they\'ll lick into shape."
His first impression of the interior of the cabin was not a good one. The West Barbican had been laid up for nearly four months, and, although her late Sparks had conscientiously carried out his written instructions as to the precautions to be taken when "packing up", the prolonged period of idleness had not improved the appearance of the apparatus. In spite of a liberal coating of vaseline the brasswork was mottled with verdigris; moisture covered the ebonite and vulcanite keys; the roof had been leaking, the course of the water being indicated by a trail of iron rust upon the white paint.
Dust covered everything, while the absence of fresh air, owing to the scuttles having been secured for months, was distressingly noticeable.
"Phew! What a reek!" exclaimed Peter, stepping backwards into the open and nearly colliding with the impassive Mahmed.
"Char, sahib."
Mostyn gulped down the hot beverage, and literally girded up his loins for direct action.
"Nip below," he ordered, addressing the still torpid Partridge. "Get hold of a bucket of hot water, a squeegee, and some swabs. Look lively, Plover; get busy with those scuttles. Open all of them. Scuttles, man; those round glass windows, if you like."
Watcher Plover tackled his allotted task with a zest that rather surprised his superior officer, but it was not until five minutes later that Peter found the Watcher trying to unbolt the brass rims instead of unthreading the locking screw.
"Belay there," exclaimed Mostyn. "Don\'t take the whole of the cabin down. Let me show——"
His words were interrupted by a metallic clatter followed by sounds of falling water. Watcher Partridge\'s hob-nailed boots had slipped on the brass treads of the ladder, and he had finished up ingloriously upon the deck, sprawling upon his back in a puddle of coal-grimed water.
While the unlucky Partridge was making a prolonged change and refit, Mostyn with his other assistant tackled the demon dirt in his lair. Not until the dust was removed and the paint-work and floor well scrubbed and dried did Peter begin to overhaul the "set".
The dull daylight faded and gave place to night, but still the indefatigable wireless operator carried on, until the bell summoning the officers to dinner warned him that it was time to knock off.
"Not so bad," he conceded modestly, as he surveyed the array of glittering brasswork and polished vulcanite. "I\'ll leave the actual tuning up and testing till to-morrow. Buzz off, you fellows. You won\'t be wanted until two bells in the forenoon watch."
Locking the door, Mostyn made his way to his own quarters. His cabin was of the usual double-berth type, one bunk being superimposed immediately above the other. In this instance he was the sole occupant of the cabin, and rather grimly he commented upon the saying that it\'s an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Had he not been called upon to endure Messrs. Partridge and Plover, he would have had to the share cramped quarters with another wireless officer.
In the adjoining cabins the jaded occupants were busily engaged in removing the traces left by their arduous labours. The coaling operation had been completed. The bunkers had been trimmed, decks washed down, and the hideous but necessary coaling-screens stowed away. Yet the ship reeked of coal-dust. The alleyways seemed stiff with it. It penetrated even into the locked and carefully curtained cabins and saloons.
On board the S.S. West Barbican there was nothing in the way of formal introduction. A newly joined officer simply "blew in" and made himself at home. When off duty the fellows were more like a pack of jolly schoolboys than men on whose shoulders rested a tremendous weight of responsibility. They accepted a newcomer as one of themselves, and, unless he were an out-and-out bounder, soon set him entirely at his ease.
In vain Peter scanned the features of his new shipmates in the hope of recognizing a familiar face. For the most part the officers had been on board for lengthy periods, the interval of idleness notwithstanding. They were a conservative crowd in the Blue Crescent Line, and, since Mostyn had served on vessels plying between Vancouver, Japan, and China, he was not surprised, although disappointed, to find that his hopes were not realized.
"Have we got our orders yet?" inquired the Chief Engineer, addressing the Acting Chief Officer, who, in the absence of the skipper, was sitting at the head of the long table.
"Yes," replied Preston. "We\'re off to a place called Brocklington, on the East Coast, to pick up the bulk of our cargo—steelwork, worse luck. Next to iron ore I know of nothing worse. It\'ll make the old hooker roll like a barrel. After that we return to Gravesend on Monday, pick up our passengers, and then away down Channel. Let\'s hope we don\'t see London River again until shipping looks up considerably. I\'ve had enough of kicking my heels on the beach, and I guess you have too. Once we go East the owners aren\'t likely to send us home in ballast."
"Dull times these, especially after the war," remarked Anstey, the Third Officer. "Even those pirate stunts in the Atlantic and Pacific are a wash-out."
"Which reminds me," added Preston, indicating the modest Mostyn. "Our Sparks here was in the Donibristle when that Porfirio blighter collared her. For first-hand information apply to our young friend here."
So Peter had to relate briefly the hazardous adventures of the crew of his former ship, after they had been taken into captivity by the swashbuckling pirate Ramon Porfirio. Before the evening was over he felt as if he had known his new messmates for ages.