The Greenhorns
Armed with a bunch of keys, Peter made his way up several ladders until
he gained the box-like structure bearing a brass plate inscribed
"Wireless Cabin".
The erection was of solid construction, lighted by six brass-rimmed
scuttles. The door, opening aft, was affording support to a couple of
pale-faced, weedy-looking youths, who, on seeing Mostyn appear, made no
attempt to shift their position, not even to the extent of removing
their hands from their pockets.
The Wireless Officer realized at once who these lads were. Already he
had had his suspicions on the point. The fact that he had received no
intimation of the presence of a junior wireless operator rather
prepared him for the discovery.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
The taller of the two boys glanced at his companion as if urging him to
reply. Receiving no encouragement from that direction he gazed
vacantly into space.
"Bloke dahn there told us to 'ang on 'ere," he announced, in the
sing-song voice of a city-bred, elementary schoolboy.
"We're Watchers," added his companion.
"Oh, are you?" rejoined Peter. "Then please to remember that when you
are spoken to by an officer you will address him as 'sir'."
Mostyn was not snobbish--far from it, but the attitude and tone of the
pair went against the grain. It was the first time that he had found
himself "up against" the genus Watcher, and the impression served to
support the adverse reports he had heard of the general incompetence
and uselessness of the class.
"Watchers" were the outcome of an ill-advised step on the part of
shipowners towards economy. A second-class ship, such as the _West
Barbican_, might carry either two trained and Government-certificated
operators--men who were qualified in both the practical and technical
side of radiography--or she might carry one operator and two Watchers.
The latter were simply and solely unskilled youths who were sent on
board ship to "listen-in" for wireless messages. They took turns in
putting on the telephones and waiting for wireless calls. All they
could do--or were expected to do--was to recognize two call signals:
the SOS and TTT, the latter an urgent general signal of lesser
importance than the well-known call for aid. To the Watchers the Morse
Code was a sealed book. Their occupation was of a blind-alley nature.
They could hardly hope to qualify as operators, lacking the aptitude,
intelligence, and opportunities for gaining their wireless ticket. In
short, they were a cheap product whereby their employers sought to cut
down expenses by dispensing with one of two wireless officers,
regardless of the grave risk that an error on the part of these
half-baked dabblers in radiography might endanger the ship.
As a class, too, they were resented by the wireless staff proper. Not
only would the employment of Watchers tend to diminish the numbers of
_pukka_ wireless officers serving afloat; but the wireless officer on a
ship carrying Watchers would be always on duty although not actually in
the cabin. Instead of taking "tricks" with his "opposite number" he
would be liable to be summoned by the Watchers on duty at any hour of
the day or night, simply because his assistant could not, and would not
be allowed to, receive or send out messages.
"Is this your first voyage?" asked Peter, addressing the taller Watcher.
"Yes," was the reply.
"Yes, what?" demanded Mostyn sharply.
"Yes, sir."
"That's better," continued Peter, as he unlocked the door, the two lads
having summoned up enough physical energy to stand aside. "What's your
name?"
"Partridge,"--pause--"sir."
"And yours?"
"Plover, sir."
"Weird birds," soliloquized Mostyn; "but perhaps they'll lick into
shape."
His first impression of the interior of the cabin was not a good one.
The _West Barbican_ had been laid up for nearly four months, and,
although her late Sparks had conscientiously carried out his written
instructions as to the precautions to be taken when "packing up", the
prolonged period of idleness had not improved the appearance of the
apparatus. In spite of a liberal coating of vaseline the brasswork was
mottled with verdigris; moisture covered the ebonite and vulcanite
keys; the roof had been leaking, the course of the water being
indicated by a trail of iron rust upon the white paint.
Dust covered everything, while the absence of fresh air, owing to the
scuttles having been secured for months, was distressingly noticeable.
"Phew! What a reek!" exclaimed Peter, stepping backwards into the open
and nearly colliding with the impassive Mahmed.
"Char, sahib."
Mostyn gulped down the hot beverage, and literally girded up his loins
for direct action.
"Nip below," he ordered, addressing the still torpid Partridge. "Get
hold of a bucket of hot water, a squeegee, and some swabs. Look
lively, Plover; get busy with those scuttles. Open all of them.
Scuttles, man; those round glass windows, if you like."
Watcher Plover tackled his allotted task with a zest that rather
surprised his superior officer, but it was not until five minutes later
that Peter found the Watcher trying to unbolt the brass rims instead of
unthreading the locking screw.
"Belay there," exclaimed Mostyn. "Don't take the whole of the cabin
down. Let me show----"
His words were interrupted by a metallic clatter followed by sounds of
falling water. Watcher Partridge's hob-nailed boots had slipped on the
brass treads of the ladder, and he had finished up ingloriously upon
the deck, sprawling upon his back in a puddle of coal-grimed water.
While the unlucky Partridge was making a prolonged change and refit,
Mostyn with his other assistant tackled the demon dirt in his lair.
Not until the dust was removed and the paint-work and floor well
scrubbed and dried did Peter begin to overhaul the "set".
The dull daylight faded and gave place to night, but still the
indefatigable wireless operator carried on, until the bell summoning
the officers to dinner warned him that it was time to knock off.
"Not so bad," he conceded modestly, as he surveyed the array of
glittering brasswork and polished vulcanite. "I'll leave the actual
tuning up and testing till to-morrow. Buzz off, you fellows. You
won't be wanted until two bells in the forenoon watch."
Locking the door, Mostyn made his way to his own quarters. His cabin
was of the usual double-berth type, one bunk being superimposed
immediately above the other. In this instance he was the sole occupant
of the cabin, and rather grimly he commented upon the saying that it's
an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Had he not been called upon to
endure Messrs. Partridge and Plover, he would have had to the share
cramped quarters with another wireless officer.
In the adjoining cabins the jaded occupants were busily engaged in
removing the traces left by their arduous labours. The coaling
operation had been completed. The bunkers had been trimmed, decks
washed down, and the hideous but necessary coaling-screens stowed away.
Yet the ship reeked of coal-dust. The alleyways seemed stiff with it.
It penetrated even into the locked and carefully curtained cabins and
saloons.
On board the S.S. _West Barbican_ there was nothing in the way of
formal introduction. A newly joined officer simply "blew in" and made
himself at home. When off duty the fellows were more like a pack of
jolly schoolboys than men on whose shoulders rested a tremendous weight
of responsibility. They accepted a newcomer as one of themselves, and,
unless he were an out-and-out bounder, soon set him entirely at his
ease.
In vain Peter scanned the features of his new shipmates in the hope of
recognizing a familiar face. For the most part the officers had been
on board for lengthy periods, the interval of idleness notwithstanding.
They were a conservative crowd in the Blue Crescent Line, and, since
Mostyn had served on vessels plying between Vancouver, Japan, and
China, he was not surprised, although disappointed, to find that his
hopes were not realized.
"Have we got our orders yet?" inquired the Chief Engineer, addressing
the Acting Chief Officer, who, in the absence of the skipper, was
sitting at the head of the long table.
"Yes," replied Preston. "We're off to a place called Brocklington, on
the East Coast, to pick up the bulk of our cargo--steelwork, worse
luck. Next to iron ore I know of nothing worse. It'll make the old
hooker roll like a barrel. After that we return to Gravesend on
Monday, pick up our passengers, and then away down Channel. Let's hope
we don't see London River again until shipping looks up considerably.
I've had enough of kicking my heels on the beach, and I guess you have
too. Once we go East the owners aren't likely to send us home in
ballast."
"Dull times these, especially after the war," remarked Anstey, the
Third Officer. "Even those pirate stunts in the Atlantic and Pacific
are a wash-out."
"Which reminds me," added Preston, indicating the modest Mostyn. "Our
Sparks here was in the _Donibristle_ when that Porfirio blighter
collared her. For first-hand information apply to our young friend
here."
So Peter had to relate briefly the hazardous adventures of the crew of
his former ship, after they had been taken into captivity by the
swashbuckling pirate Ramon Porfirio. Before the evening was over he
felt as if he had known his new messmates for ages.