The Wireless Officer Part 27

But, alas! disillusionment came next day when Captain Mostyn paid a visit to the offices of the Blue Crescent Line, and was given a list of the names of the officers and crew of the ill-starred _West Barbican_.

Amongst them was: "Geo. Fostin, steward".

"We are afraid to have to admit that Captain Bullock is amongst the missing," said the secretary of the Blue Crescent Line to Captain Mostyn. "One of our senior and most experienced skippers, and on his last voyage before retiring. The Chief Officer, Mr. Preston, is also missing, also the Wireless Officer. It can only be surmised that they stuck to the ship to the last and went down with her. The Wireless Officer's name is--let me see."

The official referred to the list in front of him.

"The same as yours, sir," he continued. "A relation, perhaps?"

"My son," replied Captain Mostyn sadly yet proudly.

CHAPTER XXV

Riding it Out

"What is the time, please, Miss Baird?" inquired Peter.

"Nine o'clock," replied Olive, consulting her wristlet watch, the only one of five in the boat that had survived.

"Too early for grub, then," continued Mostyn "We must economize. And with water, too. It's going to be a scorching hot day."

He omitted to add that in all probability there would be a stiffish wind before long, possibly increasing to hurricane force. The thundery rain, coming before the wind, pointed to a severe blow before many hours were past. Meanwhile the breeze had dropped until the boat was making less than one knot.

Peter had practically shaken off the effects of his prolonged immersion. He was feeling a bit stiff in the limbs, and had developed a healthy hunger. The latter troubled him far more than the stiffness.

Work would relieve his cramped arms, but it would also increase the pangs of the inner man.

In the light breeze he could safely entrust the helm to one of the lascars, provided he kept his weather eye lifting in case a sudden squall swept down upon the boat. The native might or might not be able to handle a sailing craft, but Peter was resolved to take no risks on that score. He would rather place Olive at the helm, although in the event of danger he meant to stick to the tiller for hours if needs be.

"Due east, _mutli_," ordered Mostyn, having signed to the lascar to come aft.

The man nodded and repeated the compa.s.s course. Since Peter had displayed his automatic the pair of lascars had been remarkably tractable.

The Wireless Officer's next step was to rig up a tent to shelter the women from the blazing sun. Calling Mahmed to a.s.sist him, he lashed the unshipped mizzen mast to the mainmast just below the goose-neck of the latter, so that the boom could swing out in the event of a gybe without fouling the almost horizontal ridge-pole. The after end of the mizzen was propped up by a crutch made by lashing a couple of boat-stretchers crosswise. Over this was spread the mizzen sail, the ends of the ridge-tent being enclosed by means of the jib and a couple of oilskin jackets.

"There you are," declared Peter, surveying the result of the joint handiwork of Mahmed and himself. "You'll be sheltered under the sail.

I would advise you both to sleep during the heat of the day."

Olive declined, with a smile, adding that she preferred to be in the open air. Mrs. Shallop hardly deigned to acknowledge the effort Mostyn had made for her comfort as far as lay in the resources at his command.

She had not been under the tent for more than a minute, when she reappeared holding up a ring-bedecked hand for inspection.

"I've lost a diamond out of this ring," she announced in a loud voice; "and it's a valuable one. It cost a sovereign."

Peter could not help smiling.

"Whatever can one do with a female like that?" he soliloquized. "The loss of a twopenny-halfpenny stone is of more consequence to her than the chance of losing her life."

Contriving to conceal his amus.e.m.e.nt he replied: "It can't have gone very far, Mrs. Shallop, if you had it in the boat. We'll probably find it under the bottom-boards."

"Then make those blacks look at once," ordered the lady peremptorily.

Peter pretended not to have heard the strident, imperious command. It would have been waste of breath to point out that the boat could not be searched without disturbing Preston, and that the awkwardly placed bottom-boards could not be removed while the boat was under way.

With a parting shot at the young officer for his incivility, Mrs.

Shallop retired to the tent and began to nag Miss Baird, who had shown no disposition to a.s.sist in the search.

"Thanks, Mr. Mostyn," said the girl, when Peter warned her of the heat of the sun. "I'm quite all right. You see, I took the precaution of wearing a topee when we were ordered into the boat. May I steer?"

For a second time that morning Mostyn relinquished the helm. Then, having seen that Preston was as comfortable as possible, he sat on one of the side-benches and chatted to the helmswoman. Even then he was not idle, for, on the principle that "you never know when it may be wanted", he took his automatic pistol to pieces and carefully cleaned the mechanism, sparingly oiling the working parts with a few drops of oil from the lamp.

"Do you know how this thing works?" inquired Peter casually.

"Yes," replied the girl promptly. "You have to pull back the hammer for the first shot, and as long as the trigger is pressed the pistol goes on firing until the magazine is empty."

"I wonder how you know," thought Mostyn.

He shook his head.

"This pistol doesn't," he explained. "Some simply act automatically as long as the trigger is pressed. That's rather a drawback if a fellow's a bit jumpy. He's apt to let fly a hail of bullets indiscriminately.

No! This pistol of mine c.o.c.ks itself after every shot, and it requires another pull on the trigger to fire each of the succeeding cartridges."

"The one I saw was different," rejoined the girl. "It was my brother's. He was killed at Ypres in '18."

Peter politely murmured regrets, but inwardly he felt relieved that the fellow who had instructed Olive into the mysteries of automatic pistols was only a brother.

Just then Preston roused slightly and asked for water.

"Better, old man?" asked Mostyn, as he poured a few precious drops into the baler, and held the rim to the Acting Chief's dry lips.

"Hocussed an' sandbagged, that's what's happened to me," mumbled Preston thickly. "Where the hooligan Harry am I?" And, with a sudden movement, he jerked the baler out of Peter's hand.

The man was obviously still delirious. Before Mostyn could decide what to reply, Preston shut his eyes and went to sleep again.

Mostyn picked up the baler from where it had fallen under the stern-bench. A couple of spoonfuls of fresh water had been wasted.

"Is that land?" suddenly inquired Olive, pointing away on the port bow, where a low, dark line was just visible on the horizon, looking very much like a chain of serrated mountains.

"Cloud bank," replied Peter briefly. Then in explanation he added: "There's wind behind that lot, Miss Baird; probably more than we want.

It may head us too."

Glancing into the compa.s.s hood to see that the girl was steering a correct course, Mostyn rapped on the thwart immediately abaft the canvas shelter in which Mrs. Shallop was either resting or brooding over more or less imaginary grievances.

"We'll have to unrig the tent," he announced. "There's a stiff breeze bearing down on us."

"I don't like stiff breezes," retorted the lady promptly. "I'd rather have the tent up to keep the wind out."

"Sorry," replied the Wireless Officer. "It can't be done. In two minutes the lascars will commence unrigging the tent."