Peter Mostyn\'s chief desire upon regaining the deck was to go below and get something to drink. Now that the immediate danger was over, his throat was burning like a lime-kiln, and his head was buzzing as if he had taken an overdose of quinine.

Slipping off his lifebelt—he had donned it mechanically on rushing to the boat, although in the circumstances the advantages of wearing a lifebelt were of a negative order—Peter returned to the bridge, keeping discreetly in the background.

The Old Man was fighting a tough battle. With Preston and Anstey he was extricating his command from a perilous situation, where skilful seamanship alone could regain control of the helm without allowing the vessel to wallow helplessly in the fiery sea. Putting the ship ahead and astern alternately the Old Man allowed her head to pay off under the force of the wind until he saw a chance of turning. Then, with a grunt of supreme satisfaction, he rang for full speed ahead. Five minutes later the West Barbican, clear of the oil-calmed water, was rolling in the tempestuous seas.

"Carry on, Mr. Anstey," he ordered. "Lay her on her old course."

He turned abruptly on his heel, intending to see how the survivors of the tanker were faring. As he swung round he noticed Peter standing under the lee of the wireless cabin.

"Mr. Mostyn!"

"Sir?"

"How many survivors?"

Peter told him.

"A smart bit of work of yours, Mr. Mostyn, but—oh, very well, go below and turn in. I\'ll see you in the morning."

The Wireless Officer obeyed only too gladly. As he washed the grime from his face he reflected that, thanks to the damaged aerial, he would have an uninterrupted watch below.

For a long time he lay awake in his bunk. It was not the heavy rolling that was responsible for his sleeplessness. The whole of the night\'s adventure passed in review, its horrors intensified in retrospect. It was not until dawn was breaking that he fell into a fitful slumber.

Meanwhile the skipper had his hands full. In the absence of a doctor he and the purser were attending to the helpless survivors of the tanker. Of the seven removed from the boat only two were conscious, and one of the pair had a compound fracture of the right leg.

His companion was able to give an account of the disaster. The vessel was the American-owned oil-tanker Bivalve of and from New York for Hull. She had struck the two drifting mines, concerning the presence of which a general wireless message had been sent out. Both exploded amidships, one on either side, about fifty feet for\'ard of the engine-room, which in vessels of the Bivalve\'s type are well aft. Within a few minutes the petroleum tanks exploded, and the sinking ship became a raging furnace. Two boats were lowered, but of the fate of the second the narrator had no knowledge. He remembered pulling desperately at an oar until the smoke cloud overwhelmed the boat. Then, gasping frantically for breath, he lost consciousness until he found himself on board the West Barbican.

At eight bells (8 a.m.) Peter was roused from his slumbers. A glance through the now open scuttle showed him that the ship was berthed alongside a wharf, and that the stevedores were already getting busy. A huge crane was transporting long, timber-protected pieces of steelwork into the West Barbican\'s No. 1 hold.

Peter regarded the steelwork with interest. It was the material on which rested the reputation and success of the Brocklington Ironworks Company, of which his father was managing director.

But other matters quickly demanded his attention. There was the damaged aerial. That had to be replaced under the direction of the Acting Chief Officer, but upon Mostyn\'s shoulders depended the responsibility of the perfect insulating of the wires. Already the necessary material had been "marked off", and the serang and his party were engaged in making eye-splices in the wire rope. At the mast-head of both fore and main, men were reeving fresh halliards for the purpose of sending the aerials aloft.

Captain Bullock was standing on the bridge watching the cargo being shipped, when he caught sight of the Wireless Officer. He beckoned Peter to approach. The officer of the watch was at the other side of the bridge superintending the securing of an additional spring; otherwise the bridge was deserted.

"Mr. Mostyn," began the Old Man abruptly, "I want you to understand clearly that there is only one captain on board this hooker, and he alone gives permission for officers to leave the ship. Who, might I ask, ordered you away in the lifeboat last night?"

"No one, sir," replied Peter.

"Then please remember that in future you are not to act on your own initiative except in matters directly concerning your duties as Wireless Officer. You were guilty of a grave breach of discipline. Don\'t let it occur again."

Mostyn smarted under this unexpected rap over the knuckles. He realized upon consideration that the rebuke was well merited. His offence was a technical breach of discipline. It was of no use telling this bluff old skipper his reasons. Yarns about "impulses of the moment" would elicit little sympathy. So he kept silent.

"All the same," continued the Old Man, in a less gruff tone, "you did a smart bit of work last night. Where did you learn to handle a boat?"

Mostyn flushed with pleasure.

"I\'ve had three years in the Merchant Service, sir, and I\'ve been in yachts and sailing dinghies ever since I can remember."

"I knew you didn\'t learn seamanship as a wireless man," continued the skipper. "Sorry I had to tick you off, my lad, but I simply had to. I\'d like to send in a recommendation on your behalf, but I don\'t see how I can. Your Company would kick up the deuce of a shine if they knew I employed a wireless officer on executive duties. It\'s not done; or it\'s not supposed to be done—put it that way. And another thing: supposing, and it was quite likely, you\'d lost the number of your mess over that business, what sort of yarn could I have pitched into the Board of Trade people? And my employers too? A pretty fine skipper they\'d think I was, allowing a wireless officer to take away a lifeboat. Likely as not I\'d have got the push from the Company\'s service and lost my ticket into the bargain. D\'ye see my point?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then we\'ll cry quits. All the same it was a smart bit of work—a jolly smart bit of work—but I\'ll have to make an entry in the log recording the fact that you\'ve been reprimanded and stating the reason. I don\'t think it will adversely affect you, Mr. Mostyn; rather the other way, I fancy."

Peter thanked the Captain and went about his duties, reflecting that the Old Man wasn\'t at all a bad sort, and that his bark was certainly worse than his bite.

Looking more like a blacksmith than a radio-operator, Peter completed his part of the work and applied the necessary tests. Everything was apparently in order in the wireless-cabin. With a grunt of satisfaction he replaced the receivers and left the cabin. Until the ship sailed—she was due to leave at ten that evening—he was at leisure.

"Now for a bath, a shave, and a change," he soliloquized. "It would never do to meet the pater in this state."

Somewhat to his surprise he found his father waiting in his son\'s cabin.

"Hello, Peter, my boy," was Captain Mostyn\'s greeting; "been ratting—or sweeping flues?"

Peter certainly looked a bit of a wreck. His sleepless night, following the perilous affair in the lifeboat, had given him a washed-out appearance. He was dog-tired, physically and mentally. He was dirty, unshaven, and rigged out in a very old uniform, with a scarf knotted round his neck in place of the regulation collar and tie.

"No, Pater," replied Peter. "Neither ratting nor sweeping flues. I\'ve been choked off by the skipper."

"Easy job, judging by that running noose on your neck-gear," commented Captain Mostyn jocularly. "What\'s happened?"

Peter told him, simply and straightforwardly. There was never a lack of confidence between father and son. His parent listened attentively to the bald narrative.

"Your skipper was quite right," he observed. "In my days in the Service I wouldn\'t have thought of allowing a watch-keeping sub to go down to the engine-room and play about with the gadgets in order to slow down the ship. You did much the same sort of thing, chipping into a department that wasn\'t yours. At the same time, I\'m proud of you, Peter. It shows you are not deficient in pluck. Right-o! carry on with your ablutions. I want to have a few words with Captain Bullock about the steelwork. While I\'m about it I\'ll ask him to let you go ashore to lunch with me."

Captain Antonius Bullock was rather astonished to find that the managing director of the firm that had virtually chartered the West Barbican for three days was the father of his Wireless Officer.

"And I had to log him this morning," declared the Old Man.

"Yes, he told me about it," rejoined Captain Mostyn. "No, he didn\'t grouse about it. He quite sees the force of your argument. In fact, I told him practically the same thing."

"All the same," said Captain Bullock, "it was a smart piece of work. At my age I\'d think twice before taking on a job of that sort. If I had to do it I\'d do it, you\'ll understand, but these youngsters often rush into danger when there\'s no particular call for it; not their duty, in a manner of speaking. I\'m rather curious to know what he did when that pirate collared the Donibristle. He told a lot about the affair, but precious little about his share in it."

"Peter had a pretty stiff time, judging from what he told me," observed Captain Mostyn. "Amongst other things he still bears the scars of eighteen wounds he received when the Donibristle\'s wireless-cabin was demolished by a shell."

"Eighteen, by Jove!" exclaimed Captain Bullock. "I had one—a beauty—in the war. Splinter from a four-inch shell when Fritz torpedoed the old Harkaway and fired on the boats. But eighteen!"

"Yes," commented Captain Mostyn. "He\'s seen more adventures during his short time in the Merchant Service than I did in thirty-seven years in the navy. During the whole of my sea service I never saw a shot fired in anger. Very good, I\'ll be on board at four o\'clock to sign those papers. Do you mind giving my boy leave till then?"

Captain Bullock readily gave the required permission, and father and son had an enjoyable spell ashore.

By four o\'clock most of the steelwork was safely stowed in the hold. Only a few crates of small parts remained to complete the all-important consignment for the Kilba Protectorate Government.

"That\'s all shipshape and Bristol-fashion, sir," remarked Captain Bullock, as the necessary signatures were appended to the papers in connection with the shipment. "If that precious lot isn\'t delivered safe and sound in Pangawani Harbour by the first of February it won\'t be the fault of Antonius Bullock."