The Wireless Officer Part 29

"In that case I'd rather not," rejoined the girl decidedly. "It wouldn't be fair to the rest, and there's the oil to be taken into consideration. I hadn't thought of that."

Having caught sufficient fish for their needs, the anglers hauled in their lines and stowed them away. Peter then shared out half a biscuit apiece and a small quant.i.ty of water. This time Mrs. Shallop was not too proud to accept the meagre fare. She ate her portion of biscuit, and even suggested to her companion that if Olive had more than she wanted she could give it to her.

Watches were then set for the night, Mahmed and one of the lascars taking from eight till two, and Peter and the other lascar from two till eight; the time being determined by Miss Baird's watch. This meant a long trick, but it was unavoidable. The three natives had been standing easy most of the day, while Peter had had no sound sleep for nearly thirty hours.

"I am not going to sleep in that tent, Mr. Mostyn," declared Olive, with an air of finality, speaking in a low voice. "I'd much rather curl up on the bottom-boards. It's not nearly so stuffy."

"Is it because Mrs. Shallop has been jawing?" asked Peter. "I'll tell you what; there's a square of spare canvas sufficient to rig you up a shelter between those two thwarts."

"Don't bother!" exclaimed Mrs. Shallop, who, when she wanted, was marvellously quick of hearing. "You can have the tent. I'll sleep outside."

And, before the astonished Peter and Olive could say anything, Mrs.

Shallop s.n.a.t.c.hed up the piece of canvas and went for'ard.

"She's ashamed of herself and is trying to make good, I think,"

suggested Mostyn. "Well, your pitch is queered, Miss Baird, but there's the tent."

Without a word Olive disappeared behind the flap.

Mostyn could rely upon Mahmed to keep his companion "up to scratch", so with an easy mind the Wireless Officer went for'ard, wrapped himself in his oilskin, and was soon sleeping soundly on the bottom-boards.

He was awakened by Mahmed at the stipulated hour. In his drowsiness it was some moments before he realized where he was, and it rather perplexed him to find his boy shaking him by the shoulder without the customary "Char, sahib".

It was a bright, starlit night. The wind was soft and steady, and the boat was rippling through the water at at least four knots.

Going aft, Mostyn peered at the compa.s.s. There was sufficient light to enable the helmsman to steer without having to use the candle-lamp of the binnacle. The course was still sou'-east, or four points south of the desired direction. It was as close as the boat could sail; even then she made a lot of leeway.

"Not'ing to report, sahib," declared Mahmed.

"All right," was the rejoinder. "Carry on."

The lascar told off to share Mostyn's watch came aft, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Me no well, sahib," he said. "Me tink me die."

"Take the wheel," ordered Peter, using the term instead of tiller, since the lascar was well acquainted with the word "wheel".

The man grasped the tiller without another word. His little ruse was a "wash-out", and, finding that his imaginary ailment received no sympathy, he carried on as if nothing had happened.

Mostyn then proceeded to attend to his injured brother-officer, was.h.i.+ng his wounds and feeding him with biscuit.

Preston was still very weak, but quite rational in his speech. His prolonged sleep had restored his mental powers, but he was unable to move without a.s.sistance.

"What's happened, old man?" he inquired. "I've been racking my brains to find out how I got laid out. I remember lowering away the boat, and after that everything's a blank."

"You got a smack with the lower block swaying," replied Peter. "At least that's what I was told. They didn't pick me up for a couple of hours or more after the s.h.i.+p went down."

"And the Old Man?" asked Preston.

The Wireless Officer shook his head sadly.

"'Fraid he's done in," he answered. "When the s.h.i.+p disappeared he was with me on the bridge. I never set eyes on him after that."

"Rough luck," murmured Preston. "His last voyage before he went on the beach with a pension. Sound old chap too, although hard to get on with at times."

"One of the best," declared Mostyn.

There was silence for a few moments.

"Mostyn, old son," exclaimed Preston. "How about a cigarette?"

"Wish I could oblige you," replied Peter; "but there isn't a shred of tobacco in the boat. I had my case full in the wireless-room when she sank--a silver presentation case--and I quite forgot to ram it into my pocket."

The Acting Chief smiled wanly, and immediately regretted having done so. It was a painful process, with one side of his face battered.

"You ought to have known better than that," he remarked reprovingly.

"Especially as you've been through much the same sort of thing before.

Tobacco takes the edge off a fellow's hunger. I suppose your case was watertight?"

"I think so," replied Peter. "But since I haven't got it I don't see that it matters."

"Mostyn, dear old thing, you don't deserve pity," said Preston. "Just feel in the inside pocket of my coat. Luckily I haven't been in the ditch."

Peter did as requested, and drew out a cardboard box containing nearly a hundred Virginias.

"Lifted 'em from the Chief Steward's cabin," explained the Acting Chief. "They would have gone to Davy Jones if I hadn't. Take charge of them, old man. They'll last the pair of us for a fortnight, and by that time----"

"How about the lascars?" asked Pater.

"Mohammedans," rejoined Preston briefly. "They aren't allowed to smoke. At least," he added, "I don't think they do. Of course, they'll come in if they want any. We'll see. Light up for me, old fellow."

"We collared a box of matches from you," said Peter. "These are all we have on board. They are yours, of course, but----"

"Do they strike?" asked the Acting Chief. "I've had them for at least a twelvemonth. Sort of emergency issue, don't you know. Try my pockets, old son. I've a lighter somewhere, I'll stake my affidavit on that---- Gently, old man!"

"Sorry," exclaimed the Wireless Officer. "By Jove, Preston, you are a marvel."

"Rot!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the other in self-depreciation. "Merely a case of looking after one's own interests."

Placing the end of a cigarette between Preston's lips Peter lit it.

The Acting Chief grunted contentedly.

"There's a box of Turkish delight in my pocket," he continued. "Take it and hand it to the womenfolk. All the joy hasn't gone out of life yet, Sparks. Light up and get happy."

Mostyn did so. Never before had he so appreciated the soothing effect of a cigarette.

In this complaisant state of mind he was addressed by the lascar at the helm.

"Mahometan smoke, Sahib; Sikh, Mahometan, too: him not smoke."