A Quiet Trick
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 keep an
eye on yon greenhorn and see that he doesn't drop asleep on his perch.
Trust me for that."
Five minutes later Peter was sound asleep.
Suddenly he was aroused by a hand grasping his shoulder. Only half
awake the Wireless Officer sat up in his bunk, narrowly avoiding
collision with the cork-cemented beam overhead.
"TTT, sir!" bellowed an excited voice.
For the present Peter was still hovering on the border-line 'twixt
slumber and wakefulness. Somehow he had the idea in his brain that he
was once more on board the S.S. _Donibristle_, and the officers'
steward had brought him a cup of tea before going on watch.
"No, dash it all!" he expostulated. "I don't want tea now."
"TTT, sir! TTT!" repeated the disturber of Mostyn's peace.
Then Peter realized the situation. It was Watcher Partridge, almost
falling over himself in his anxiety to proclaim the fact that at last
he had had a call through of an important nature.
Tumbling out of his bunk, Peter slipped into his bridge coat, and
hurried to the wireless-cabin, the Watcher, puffing and blowing,
following hard on his heels.
Picking up the 'phones, Mostyn listened for a few seconds. Then he
replaced the ear-pieces on the table.
"You'll have to do better than that next time," he observed
caustically. "That's not TTT--nothing like it. It's North Foreland on
our starboard quarter calling CQ. Tuning in, most likely."
Returning to his bunk, Peter noticed that it was now 11.15 p.m. There
was still a chance of a good night's rest, he reflected.
At a quarter to twelve he was called again to receive time signals.
Forty-five minutes later he was aroused to call for wireless orders for
the ship. On this occasion nothing was forthcoming, so back along the
now familiar alleyway he hurried to his sleeping-cabin.
It seemed as if Peter had been asleep only a few minutes when there was
a terrific hammering at his door. Sitting up, Mostyn felt for the
electric light switch. He found it easily enough. There was a
metallic snap--but the cabin was not flooded with light. Something had
gone wrong with the bulb, he reflected, as he shouted to the disturber
without to come in.
The door opened. There appeared the perspiring face of Crawford, the
engineer of the watch, his features thrown into weird relief by the
guttering gleam of an oil hand-lamp.
"Hey, laddie!" he exclaimed in sepulchral tones. "Yon Watcher,
he's----"
Words failed the Second Engineer.
"I'm awa' to sort yon," he added, and, as if no further explanation
were necessary, bolted precipitately.
Imagining that nothing short of a vision of Partridge grilling on the
main switch would meet his gaze, Peter doubled to the wireless-cabin.
The alleyway was in pitch darkness. He collided violently with the
Third Engineer, who, summoned from his slumbers, was making tracks for
the engine-room.
On the bridge the officer of the watch was shouting to the serang to
bring up the emergency oil-lamps. Every fuse in the ship had been
blown out, and consequently not only the internal lighting had failed
but the electric masthead and side lights had refused duty. With the
_West Barbican_ proceeding down Channel at fifteen knots on a dark
night the possibilities of a disastrous collision were great, until the
emergency lights were rigged up and the ship brought back on her
course, since the binnacle lamp had failed with the other electric
lights.
A strong smell of burning gutta-percha and ebonite greeted Peter as he
gained the vicinity of the wireless-cabin. Outside stood Partridge and
Plover, the latter about to take over the watch. Both were horribly
scared, and no wonder, for upon striking a match Mostyn found the
reason for all the trouble.
Watcher Partridge, on turning over to his opposite number, had hung the
telephones on the main switch. He was deeply surprised and not a
little pained when there was a miniature Brocks' display inside the
cabin, both ear-pieces of the 'phones burning out and emitting most
nauseating fumes, while every fuse on board had been blown out, causing
a complete breakdown of the electric-light system.
After explaining matters to the angry Old Man, who was, figuratively,
hunting for the scalp of the luckless Partridge, Mostyn set to work to
rectify the share of the damage that came within his province. It took
him the best part of an hour to replace the defective main switch by a
new one, connect new telephones, and overhaul the set.
Then, back once more to his bunk, Peter realized that less than five
hours remained before he took over the watch. It was now 3.15 p.m.
At 4.45 the engineer of the watch interrupted Mostyn's dreams. Once
again the fuses had blown out, the cause being traced to the
wireless-cabin.
The Wireless Officer stumbled across Master Plover at the foot of the
bridge ladder. The Watcher was nursing his foot, and making
inarticulate noises that denoted pain. The sole of his left boot was
missing, together with the fearsome array of hobnails that used to play
a tattoo upon the brass treads of the ladders.
Master Plover could give no coherent account of what had happened.
"I was sittin' there as quiet as a mouse a-listenin' in," he whimpered,
"when I found myself chucked orf me chair right through the blinkin'
door. S'elp me, I didn't do nothin' to the gadgets."
Peter guessed rightly as to what had actually happened. The Watcher
wasn't watching. In other words, he had been dozing, and in a
somnolent state had unconsciously placed his iron-shod boot upon the
long-suffering main switch.
Making good defects, Mostyn managed to soothe the still highly nervous
Plover into a state of tractability. Till a quarter to eight the jaded
Wireless Officer did enjoy an uninterrupted sleep, then to be awakened
by Mahmed's cheerful announcement: "Char, sahib."
Ten minutes later Peter took on. As he heard the dot-and-carry-one
patter of the relieved Watcher's solitary boot, he smiled to himself
and reflected that, although the work of a wireless officer is at times
a strenuous one, it has its humorous side and is not without
compensations.