At high water that night the S.S. West Barbican, drawing eighteen feet for\'ard and twenty-four aft, left Brocklington Harbour, crossing the bar with less than five feet of water under her keel.

Fortunately the weather had moderated, the wind flying round off the land, otherwise she might have been detained for days, owing to the condition of the bar. The ship was now making for Gravesend to pick up passengers and mails, and thence for East Africa according to her usual programme.

Peter went on watch at ten that night with the unalluring prospect of remaining on duty till midday—perhaps longer—since Partridge and Plover, who had bucked up considerably during the vessel\'s stay in port, promptly showed signs of internal troubles the moment the bar was crossed.

It was not a prearranged case of malingering. There was no doubt about it: they had been ill. Neither knew of the burning of the oil-tanker, and of the dangerous position of the West Barbican when she proceeded to the rescue, until late on the following morning, and even then they received the news apathetically.

So Mostyn just carried on, pondering over the Company\'s doubtful economy, since, in addition to his normal pay, he was already raking in a fair sum for overtime in excess of the Merchant Service eight hours per day.

Gravesend was in its wonted late autumn state when the West Barbican dropped anchor. A thick fog entirely blotted out the shore. The air reverberated with the dismal hooting of sirens in every imaginable key; while bells clanging from vessels at anchor added to the din. At intervals the sun shone feebly through the yellow pall, although it was impossible to see twenty feet along the deck. To add to the general discomfort a raw, moist, west wind was blowing down London River, without having sufficient force to disperse the baffling fog.

The West Barbican was two and a half hours late in arriving at Gravesend. If she were to weigh at the scheduled hour the passengers would have to be smart in getting on board with their personal cabin effects. Their heavy baggage had been sent down to the docks and placed in a hold a week previously.

Peter Mostyn had turned in directly the ship dropped anchor. There was a chance of two hours well-earned rest, if rest it could be called, since he lay down on his bunk fully clothed save for his rubber deck-boots. It was one of those frequent occasions when he could not afford to waste precious minutes in dressing and undressing. He was almost too dog-tired to kick off his boots. He was dimly conscious of throwing himself on his bunk and pulling the collar of his greatcoat up over the back of his neck; then he passed into a state of oblivion, notwithstanding the discordant sonata within and without the ship.

He was awakened by the appearance of Mahmed with the inevitable char. The native boy was now in "full rig", a concession to the still-absent passengers. He wore a white drill suit, similar to that worn by officers in tropical climes, with the exception that there were no shoulder-straps. On his head he sported a round skull-cap of astrakhan, with a scarlet top.

"No come yet, sahib," announced Mahmed, in response to Peter\'s inquiry as to whether the tender had come alongside with the passengers.

"All right," rejoined Peter, as he handed back the empty cup. "Tell Partridge Sahib and Plover Sahib I want them in the wireless-cabin."

Going on deck, Peter found that the fog was as thick as ever. It was now nearly eight bells (4 p.m.), and the crew had been mustered for inspection. All the deck hands were now rigged out in uniforms. Instead of the motley garb, each man had a loose-fitting coat of butcher-blue, reaching to his knees and secured round the waist with a red scarf. His headdress was a scarlet, close-fitting cap, not unlike the Egyptian "tarboosh". This was the uniform issued by the Company for "ceremonial", and the expected advent of passengers was a fitting occasion for the display.