"Hurrah!" exclaimed Peter Mostyn. "Now, this does look like business."

"It does, Mr. Mostyn," agreed the postmistress. "It seems as if we are to lose you again."

"And about time too," added the youth, as he ripped open the long, buff-coloured envelope bearing the words "Broughborough International Marine Telegraph Company".

Peter Mostyn had been "on the beach" for nearly six months. In other words, he was out of a berth. Not that it was any fault of his that a promising and energetic young wireless officer should be without a ship for such a protracted period. An unprecedented slump in British shipping—when hundreds of vessels flying the Red Ensign were laid up, while the bulk of the world\'s trade was carried by the mercantile fleet of Germany—had resulted, amongst other ills, in the wholesale "sacking" of officers and men, who to a great extent had been the means of warding off the grim spectre of starvation during those black years of the World War.

Five times a week for over four months Peter Mostyn had ridden into Trentham Regis village in the hope of securing the long-expected missive giving him an appointment to another ship.

And now the anxiously awaited communication had arrived. The postmistress, a good, kindly soul to whom the affairs of every man, woman, and child in the Trentham Regis postal area were open secrets, was almost as excited as the recipient, when she handed the envelope over the counter between the piles of groceries that comprised the commercial side of the shop.

For a brief instant Peter was assailed by the dread that the envelope would contain a stereotyped announcement to the effect that his application was still under consideration; then a look of undisguised relief and gratification overspread his tanned features.

"Yes, Mrs. Young!" he exclaimed; "I\'m off in three days\' time. Where? I hardly know, but I rather fancy it\'s East Africa. Good evening."

Leaving the postmistress to spread the news amongst the good folk of Trentham Regis—a feat that she would certainly accomplish to her unbounded satisfaction before the post office closed for the night—Peter mounted his motor-bicycle and rode after the fashion of the long departed Jehu, the son of Nimshi, leaving behind him a long trail of chalky dust in the still evening air. Short of wireless it was doubtful whether the good news could have reached "The Pines" in less time, for within the space of five and a half minutes Peter had covered the three miles that separated his home from Trentham Regis.

"Hello, Mater!" he exclaimed, bursting into the house like a young typhoon. "Where are you? Ah, there you are! I\'ve got it!"

There was no need for Mrs. Mostyn to ask for further enlightenment upon the cryptic "it". She guessed the news at once.

"I\'m so glad, Peter!" she exclaimed. "What ship this time?"

"The West Barbican, Mater. I fancy she\'s one of the Blue Crescent Line. If so, it\'s East Africa and possibly India, this trip. \'Tany rate, I\'m to join her before noon on Thursday. Where\'s the Pater?"

"Not back from town yet. There was a board meeting on this afternoon."

"Oh yes, I remember. About the Kilba Protectorate contract. I suppose he\'ll return by the 8.50.... By Jove! What a topping stunt! Fancy getting a ship again after all this time. Of course, Mother, it was nice to be home again, but, after all, it\'s a jolly long time to be kicking one\'s heels on the beach, isn\'t it?"

Mrs. Mostyn agreed, but solely upon her son\'s account. She was in no hurry to send her boy to sea again, but she realized that it was for his good that he should once more adventure upon the ocean. Coming of a seafaring family that for generations past had sent its sons down to the sea in ships—often never to return—she realized more than a good many mothers what was meant by the call of the great waters. She had drunk deeply of the cup of sorrow when the S.S. Donibristle, of which Peter was wireless officer, had been reported overdue and missing, and was afterwards given out by Lloyd\'s as a total loss. And in due course Peter had returned home, modestly making light of his hairbreadth adventures, his chief complaint being that the Broughborough International Marine Telegraph Company had not thought fit to appoint him to a ship belonging to the same fleet as did the S.S. Donibristle.

Peter\'s father, John Mostyn, was a retired Engineer Captain, R.N., who, having severed his connection with the navy at the conclusion of the Great War, had become one of the managing directors of the Brocklington Ironworks Company.

For a while the affairs of the newly formed company had flourished. Then came the inevitable slump. Labour troubles and foreign competition added to the difficulties of the firm. The reserve capital dwindled until there were barely sufficient funds to meet the weekly wages bill. Things looked black—decidedly so; but never once did the gloomy outlook daunt the cheery optimism of retired Engineer Captain John Mostyn.

When the fortunes of the Brocklington Ironworks Company seemed at their lowest ebb, the firm had an invitation to tender for a big contract for the recently formed Kilba Protectorate. Comprising a vast extent of territory on the East Coast of Africa, Kilba was making a bold bid for prosperity under British rule. Amongst other schemes for the development of the country was the proposed construction of a railway linking up the coast with the rich mineral lands of the interior. One of the natural difficulties in the way of the railroad was the Kilembonga Gorge, where the river of that name flows with great impetuosity between sheer walls of rock rising two hundred feet above the turgid stream. The bed of the river was of shifting sand, so that, even if the difficulty of the current could be overcome, there remained the question of how to build solid piers on such a doubtful foundation. Finally it was decided to throw a cantilever bridge across the chasm.

Accordingly, the Kilba Protectorate Government asked tenders for the construction of the necessary steelwork, including delivery upon the site. British, American, Italian, Japanese, and German firms were invited to contract, although it was difficult to see why the Kilba Government should have asked these last to quote a price. It was not until later that a reason was forthcoming.

Among the British firms to tender was the Brocklington Ironworks Company, and it was then that Captain Mostyn seized his opportunity. He foresaw that a successful carrying out of the contract would be the turning-point of the firm\'s fortunes—that the kudos derived from that prosperous enterprise would give the Brocklington Ironworks Company a world-wide advertisement and place them at the forefront of engineering contracting firms.

Upon putting the circumstances of the case before his brother-directors, Captain Mostyn carried his point. He told them that the immediate financial results of the contract would be small—in fact, almost insignificant—but once having beaten all rivals, British and foreign, the future success of the company was assured.

"Capital?" echoed Captain Mostyn, in answer to a question from one of his fellow-directors. "Capital? We can find the capital. It will be a tight squeeze, a terribly tight squeeze, but we\'ll do it with a slight margin to spare. Let me have a talk with the men, and I\'ll warrant that, if they have the good sense I credit them with, we\'ll pull the thing off successfully."

Without delay the managing director went down to Brocklington, where he had what he called a straight talk with the firm\'s employees. He told them straight that if their whole-hearted co-operation were not forthcoming the works would have to close down, and that, with the present state of unemployment, it would be difficult, almost impossible, for the six hundred hands to find work elsewhere.

"I\'m asking you to make sacrifices," he went on. "For the present neither the directors nor the shareholders are making money, and naturally we cannot run this business as a charity concern. I therefore propose a general reduction of wages in order for us to quote competitive prices, so that we may secure the contract and provide constant work for all. I am also authorized by the board of directors to state that fifty per cent of the profits of the contract—mind you that amount will be comparatively small—will be apportioned as a bonus to the workpeople."

Before Captain Mostyn left Brocklington the matter was clinched, as far as the hands were concerned. There was a unanimous decision on the part of the workpeople to back up the firm, and once this step was decided upon Captain Mostyn knew that the greatest obstacle was removed, and that British grit and determination on the part of the employees would see the business through.

The Brocklington Ironworks Company sent in their tender and waited hopefully. Three months later came the news that they had secured the contract, which had been quoted at ￡50,500.

It was not the lowest tender. A couple of German firms were below this estimate, owing to the low value of the mark. One, the Augsburg Manufacturing Company, tendered at ￡30,000, while the Pfieldorf Company of Chemnitz offered to supply and deliver the material for a trifle over ￡20,000. The rest of the competing firms tendered considerably higher than the Brocklington Ironworks Company.

In the conditions of contract several "stiff" clauses had been inserted. The Kilba Protectorate Government required the completion of the work, including delivery, by the end of March; failing which, a heavy penalty was to be inflicted. All the steelwork was to be examined by competent inspectors, both in England and on the site, and any defective material was to be replaced at the contractors\' expense plus a fine equal to the value of the replaced work.

Gallantly the employees of the Brocklington Ironworks Company rose to the occasion. Work continued at high pressure in spite of sundry difficulties. When the supply of coal ran short, the smelting furnaces were fed with wood. When the railway companies dallied over the delivery of iron-ore, a fleet of motor lorries brought the stuff direct from the pits. Once, a series of unexplained explosions destroyed a part of the rolling mills, but within a week the machinery was in working order again, and by the end of October the whole of the steelwork was ready for the Government inspectors.

It was to receive the report of the latter that Captain Mostyn had gone to town. At 8.50 Peter met his father at Trentham Regis station.

"Why, Pater," exclaimed Peter, as his sire alighted, "what have you been doing—whitewashing?"

Captain Mostyn glanced at his shoulder. His coat was speckled with white dust.

"Oh, that," he replied carelessly. "I suppose it was when some fellow working above the board-room fell through the ceiling. He wasn\'t hurt, only a bit scared. I\'ll tell you all about it later. What\'s more to the point, Peter, the steelwork\'s passed the test with flying colours, and we\'re shipping it on Saturday on the S.S. West Barbican."

"My new ship," announced Peter.