Some of the incidents in this chapter are based upon actual facts recorded in The Signal. The author takes this opportunity to express his thanks to the editor of that journal for permission, readily granted, to make use of certain incidents here recorded.

Mostyn made his way to the wireless-cabin to find his two satellites standing by according to orders.

"Well, all right now?" asked Peter solicitously.

"Yes, sir," was the reply in unison.

"What did you have for dinner in your mess?" pursued Mostyn, addressing Partridge.

"B\'iled mutton, sir; and it weren\'t \'arf good."

"Not \'arf," corroborated the other bird. "An\' b\'iled peas an\' dumplin\'s an\' orl that."

"Right-o!" rejoined Peter briskly. "That shows you\'re both as fit as fiddles. We start sea routine at 10 p.m. You\'ll take on till four bells, Partridge——"

"Say, wot about my dinner?" objected the Watcher.

"Dinner?" repeated Mostyn, failing to grasp the reason of his subordinate\'s objection. "What\'s that got to do with it?"

"Dinner\'s at two bells, sir."

The Wireless Officer suppressed a desire to laugh.

"Four bells in the middle watch," explained Peter.

"That\'s 2 a.m. Surely to goodness you didn\'t expect to do a fourteen hours\' trick? Plover, you relieve Partridge at four bells and carry on till I take over at eight bells—that\'s eight o\'clock in the morning, not noon or four in the afternoon," he added caustically. "Got that?"

Yes, Messrs. Partridge and Plover had got that part all right.

"Now," continued Peter, "you know your duties. On no account touch the transmitter. Call me if there\'s any real need for it; and, don\'t forget, if you fall asleep on watch there\'ll be trouble."

Mostyn dismissed his assistants and donned the telephones. The West Barbican had weighed and was creeping cautiously down London River, over which the fog still hung as thickly as ever.

He anticipated a busy time. There were sure to be passengers who wanted to send messages at belated hours; urgent radiograms from shore stations, and radiograms that weren\'t urgent, were bound to be coming in; while, in addition, he had to deal with calls from ships and stations in the vicinity, and look out for time signals, weather reports, and possibly SOS and TTT warnings. Otherwise, save on approaching or departing from a port, the operator\'s work is light and at sea often approaching boredom.

Ten p.m. found the West Barbican rounding the North Foreland. She had now increased speed to nine knots, the weather becoming clearer. Hitherto, her passage down the river as far as the Edinburgh Lightship had been perforce at a painful crawl of four to five knots, with her siren blaring incessantly.

Mostyn had seen nothing of the passengers after their arrival. Being on duty he had missed dinner in the saloon. Not that he had missed much from a spectacular point of view, for most of the passengers were absent from that meal. A good many, in fact, would fail to put in an appearance at meals for several days, giving the hard-worked stewards and stewardesses a strenuous time in consequence. The latter were at it already, judging by the frequent popping of soda-water-bottle corks and cries of varying intensity and vehemence for "steward".

The tindal had gone for\'ard and rung four bells. Peter, with the telephones still on, waited for his relief. Five minutes passed. He was beginning to think that the bird had played him false again, when Master Partridge\'s hobnailed boots were heard clattering on the brass-treaded ladder.

"Quite ready, boss," he observed genially.

Mostyn, without a word, handed him the telephones, repressing the desire to tick him off for unpunctuality. Then, waiting until the Watcher had adjusted the ear-pieces to his broad head, he wished Partridge "good night".

"Shall I turn in all standing?" he asked himself, as he switched on the light and surveyed his bunk. It was a bitterly cold night, for, with the partial dispersal of the fog, a cold nor\'easter had sprung up. "A hundred to one I\'ll be routed out. Thank goodness we\'ll soon be in the Tropics!"

It did not take Peter long to turn in. For some minutes he lay awake thinking. He was far from easy in his mind concerning the Watcher on duty. In a congested waterway like the Straits of Dover and the English Channel—particularly in the vicinity of the Downs and off St. Catherine\'s—wireless messages of great importance to the safety of the ship and her passengers and crew might be sent; but would Partridge be alert enough to warn the West Barbican\'s operator? Supposing the bird fell asleep on watch? It was all very well for Mostyn to say that if a disaster should occur it would be put down to the fault of the system. That was not good enough for a conscientious fellow like Peter.

He resolved, in spite of his weariness, to make periodical visits to the wireless-cabin.

At 10.30 p.m. he cautiously approached the cabin; not with the idea of eavesdropping but merely to see if Watcher Partridge were on the alert. If he were, Peter meant to withdraw without disturbing him. If he were not—Peter smiled grimly.

Thrusting his feet into his rubber boots (on principle Mostyn always had sea-boots a size larger than he wore with shore-going kit) the Wireless Officer made his way to the cabin. A glance through the closed scuttle showed him that Partridge was wide awake, and that he still wore the telephones. Satisfied, he began to retrace his steps and encountered Preston tracking along the alleyway.

Dick Preston was still Acting Chief, the Chief Officer having failed to join the ship at Gravesend. Consequently the West Barbican was one executive officer short.

"Hello there!" exclaimed Preston. "Thought it was your watch below, Sparks. What\'s up: developed insomnia?"

Mostyn told him the reason for his visit to the bridge.

"That\'s all right, young fellah-me-lad," declared the Acting Chief. "You turn in. I know you\'ve had a pretty sticky time. I\'ll............