Unpopularity
A few days later Mostyn was having an easy time. He was on watch, but
with little to do. A notice-board on the promenade-deck furnished the
reason for his enforced inactivity:
"S.S. _West Barbican_. To-day, in radio communication with _nil_.
To-morrow, radio communication expected with _nil_."
The notice was painted with the exception of the two _nils_, which were
written in chalk. Placed for the convenience of passengers wishing to
send off private wireless messages, it duly recorded what ships and
shore stations were within radio range. In her present position in the
South Atlantic she was too far away to dispatch or pick up messages
from Cape Town, the radius of her wireless being limited to 240 miles
by day and almost thrice that distance by night.
Peter had overhauled the set, and was taking the opportunity of writing
home. With his white patrol-coat unbuttoned and his _solar topee_
perched on the back of his head, he was making the best of things in
spite of the terrific heat and the attentions of numerous cockroaches.
There were thousands of these insects all over the ship, ranging in
size from an eighth of an inch to nearly three inches in length.
Whilst the _West Barbican_ was in home waters their presence was
invisible. They kept to the dark and inaccessible parts of the ship;
but directly the weather grew warmer, as the ship neared the Tropics,
they emerged fearlessly from their lairs and swarmed everywhere. By
this time the passengers had grown more or less accustomed to them, but
the early stages of the invasion of the living pests of the ship had
caused great consternation and indignation, especially on the part of
the ladies on board.
In times of boredom, when the passengers were "fed up" with deck-quoits
and sweepstakes on the "day's run", the cockroaches would be pressed
into service to provide entertainment. A dozen or more would be
captured and placed on the deck, each having its own particular
"fancier" in a miniature race, and it was surprising to see with what
zest the passengers entered into the sport.
Presently Peter heard a light footfall on the deck, followed by a
distinct knock upon the wide-open door of the cabin.
Rising, Peter found that Olive Baird was standing outside the
brass-rimmed coaming.
"Good morning, Mr. Mostyn," she said. "Will you mind telling me if a
message can be sent to Cape Town? And how much per word, please?"
"Sorry, Miss Baird," he replied, "we aren't in touch with any shore
station. We may possibly get the Cape Town one to-morrow night."
At the back of his mind Peter found himself wondering why Miss Baird
hadn't gone to the trouble of reading the announcement on the
notice-board. He was rather glad she hadn't--perhaps she had purposely
ignored it. It gave him an opportunity of entering into conversation
with the girl.
Already Anstey had found out quite a lot about Olive Baird. How, he
refused to divulge, but it was pretty certain that the girl had let out
little or nothing.
Olive Baird was motherless. Her father had married again to a woman
only five years older than his daughter, and, instinctively scenting
domestic trouble in the near future, Olive had determined to earn her
own living--a task that she had already found to be far more difficult
than the cultured girl had imagined.
Almost at the end of her resources--for she knew that she would receive
neither sympathy nor help from her estranged parent--Olive remembered a
distant relation, a girl but a few years older than herself, who had
married an official holding an appointment in the Kenya Colony.
To her Olive wrote, asking if there might be any post open to her in
the district. Three months elapsed before the reply came--that there
was a warm welcome awaiting her. Enclosed was a banker's draft,
enough, and only enough, to pay for her passage out and to provide a
necessary and simple outfit.
Before the _West Barbican_ was many days out Mrs. Shallop, in one of
her few amiable moods, had asked the friendless and reserved girl if
she would, for a small remuneration, give her a couple of hours a day
for the purpose of reading to her.
"My eyes aren't what they were," explained Mrs. Shallop. "And it's
deadly dull on this ship when I can't even read."
So Olive thankfully accepted the post, because it helped her to pay her
way; and, even when Mrs. Shallop had her almost at her beck and call,
the girl did her best to keep on good terms with her.
It was not long before Olive found out the true nature of her supposed
benefactress. Mrs. Shallop was vain, boastful, and with no regard for
veracity. She was one of those persons who, having told the same fairy
tale over and over again, firmly believe that the lie is the truth. On
the other hand, her memory was defective, with the result that very
frequently her story had a totally different setting when told a second
or third time. In addition, she was bitingly sarcastic, and was never
known to say a good word about anyone but herself.
So Olive had rather a rotten time.
The girl was, however, absolutely loyal to her employer. In the course
of conversation with other passengers she was careful not to say a word
that might be detrimental to Mrs. Shallop. Evidently that lady thought
she might, for Argus-like she kept a strict watch upon her.
The Shallops had taken "Round Trip" tickets. These were issued by the
Blue Crescent Line, and guaranteed a voyage of not less than three
months. If by any chance, as was frequently the case, the voyage was
prolonged, the holder of the ticket scored, for he or she was
maintained at the Company's expense until the ship returned home or the
passengers transferred to another vessel of the Company's bound for
England.
Olive Baird's employers had made a heap of money during the Great War,
and were now doing their best to spend it. Nevertheless, they wanted
value for their outlay, and the round trip in the _West Barbican_
pointed that way. Mr. Shallop was not keen on the voyage. It was his
wife who insisted upon it, mainly because it was "the thing" to travel,
and it would be an easy matter on their return to give out that they
had gone on a palatial P. & O. mail-boat. It sounded grander than the
Blue Crescent Line.
By this time the heat was beginning to tell upon the portly Mrs.
Shallop. There were actually long intervals in which her strident
voice failed to lacerate the ears of her fellow-passengers.
This was one of them. Wanting to do "the thing" and send a wireless
message to her sister in Cape Town, Mrs. Shallop was too fatigued to
mount the bridge-ladder; her husband had sheepishly slunk away to the
smoking-room, and only Olive was available to undertake the commission.
"I'm sorry to have interrupted you," remarked Olive.
"Not at all; don't mention it," protested Peter; then, in an outburst
of candour, he added: "You haven't seen our wireless-room."
"I should love to," rejoined Olive, who had the modern girl's leanings
towards anything of a scientific nature. "I always wanted to see what
it was like and how it worked, but I didn't like to ask you."
Without more ado Mostyn proceeded to explain the mysteries of that
steel-walled house, unconsciously launching out into an intricate
technical lecture on wave-lengths, atmospherics, induced current, valve
and spark-gaps, until Olive was quite bewildered.
"There's nothing doing," he remarked, after the girl had placed the
telephone ear-pieces to her shapely ears. "We're too far away from
land. But I'll disconnect the aerial and let you see a ripping spark."
"Another time, Mr. Mostyn," demurred Olive. "Mrs. Shallop will wonder
what I've been doing."
Calling silent maledictions upon the head of the tartar, Peter escorted
the girl to the head of the bridge-ladder, extorting a promise that she
would pay another visit to the wireless-cabin when the ship got within
radiographic range.
"Or earlier if you like," he added.
He watched her disappear from sight and slowly made his way back to the
cabin. Somehow the home-letter proceeded slowly and disjointedly. He
was thinking of the jolly little girl who took such an interest in
wireless.
Poor Peter! If he had only known how he had tired her almost to the
verge of boredom.
Ten minutes after Miss Baird's departure Mostyn "got busy". Away to
the starboard a vessel was calling CQ. The note was very faint and
considerably hampered by atmospherics.
He was still endeavouring to tune in to the correct wave-length when he
was interrupted by a vigorous punch between the shoulder-blades. Over
his shoulder he saw that the interrupter was Mrs. Shallop.
Peter was rather more than annoyed by the interruption. He was angry.
There was no denying that he possessed a temper, but he had usually the
happy knack of keeping his feelings well under control. In the present
circumstances he felt inclined to expostulate vehemently.
For one thing, he had a rooted dislike for the woman. For another, she
had no right to be on the bridge, unless for the purpose of sending off
a message or by the skipper's permission. Neither reason held just
then. The wireless-cabin was closed for private transmission; she had
not obtained the Old Man's sanction to be on the bridge.
The fact that Miss Baird had been on that spot only a few minutes
previously hardly entered into Mostyn's calculations. Unconsciously he
had allowed himself to be influenced by personal considerations, and he
had forgotten that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the
gander.
With a deprecatory gesture of his left hand Mostyn attempted to convey
the impression that he was busy. His attention had to be concentrated
on the CQ message if he were to understand its import. It was
difficult enough, without his being hampered by external interruptions.
One would have thought a hint sufficient. Not a bit of it! Mrs.
Shallop was one of those hidebound, overbearing individuals who
expected immediate and subservient attention.
"Why did you refuse to send off my message?" she demanded, in her loud,
grating voice. "You put Miss Baird off with a trivial excuse, but that
won't work with me, young man. Isn't my money as good as anyone
else's? Don't you know that I'm the daughter of a naval----"
Mostyn removed the telephones and stood up. There was an ominous glint
in his eyes. His forbearance was nearing the breaking-point.
"I can only refer you to the notice-board on the promenade-deck," he
said. "That and the intimation that passengers are forbidden on the
bridge except with the Captain's permission. If you have any cause for
complaint, please report to Captain Bullock. I must ask you to leave
the wireless-cabin at once."
Mrs. Shallop recoiled as if she had received a blow on the face. She
had expected no opposition. The quiet, decisive, and deliberate tones
of the young Wireless Officer had completely taken the wind out of her
sails.
Without a word she turned and made straight for the Old Man's cabin,
bursting in like a tornado.
Captain Bullock was being shaved by his servant. The sudden and
unexpected entrance of the tartar caused Wilkins's attention to wander,
with the result that a crimson streak discoloured the lather on the
skipper's chin.
Captain Bullock had, according to his usual custom, decided to remove
his beard when approaching the Cape, and the operation was well
advanced when Mrs. Shallop intruded at a very inopportune moment.
She failed to recognize the skipper shorn of his beard and with his
face plastered with soap.
"Where's the Old Man?" she demanded heatedly.
What was the exact nature of Captain Bullock's reply Mostyn was unable
to hear. With his mouth full of soap and his chin bleeding profusely
the Old Man's articulation was a trifle confused; but he certainly did
let himself go, with the result that the interrupter, in spite of her
oft-reiterated claim to be a lady, was unceremoniously requested to
remove herself to a region considerably warmer than the skipper's
cabin, the temperature of which was registering 130 deg. in the shade.
Chuckling to himself, Peter saw the discomfited Mrs. Shallop descend
the bridge-ladder with more haste than dignity; then he tried, but in
vain, to pick up the interrupted CQ signal.
"Captain Sahib him want you, sahib," announced Mahmed.
Mostyn promptly obeyed the summons. He too was rather surprised at the
alteration effected by the removal of the skipper's beard, the newly
shaven portion contrasting forcibly with the brick-red tan of the rest
of his face.
"Tell me," began the Captain, "what was that old barge doing in the
wireless-cabin?"
Peter explained.
The Old Man nodded eagerly.
"You did the right thing, my boy," he remarked "I've had enough--more
than enough--of that impossible woman. I told her that in future she
is not to come on the bridge on any pretext whatsoever. If she wants
to send a message, let her; but she must do so in writing and submit it
to me before it is passed. That'll clip her wings. All right, Mr.
Mostyn, carry on."
Peter carried on until relieved by Watcher Plover. The latter was
improving considerably, although he could never become an operator. He
lacked the education and intelligence necessary for the work, but by
this time he was able to discriminate between various signals and to
know the Morse call for the ship. Consequently Peter's watch below was
not subject to numerous and unnecessary interruptions.
"Hello, Sparks!" exclaimed Preston, as Mostyn blew into the
smoking-room. "So you've been up against it this time. Tell us all
about it."
There were about half a dozen passengers, the Acting Chief Officer, and
two of the engineers off duty passing a pleasant hour. All seemed
eager to know full particulars of the encounter.
"She's an unmitigated nuisance," declared an artist, proceeding to
Natal in order to paint some frescoes for one of the important
buildings. "We'll all be reduced to nervous wrecks before we see the
last of her. Can't we choke her off?"
"For Heaven's sake don't, old chap," protested Comyn, his cabin-mate, a
tall, lean-faced, literary man. "I bear the brunt of it. Every
morning I get a dose of it until I know every shred of her personal
history in spite of the fact that the details vary as consistently as
does the ship's position. It is priceless. I revel in it. Wouldn't
miss it for worlds; I encourage her, in fact."
"'Tany rate," interposed Alderton grimly, "she called you a lanky
reptile."
"Perhaps," rejoined the unruffled author. "If it comes to that, she
said you were a little worm. There's no end of fun making out that you
believe all Mrs. Shallop tells you. It's a little gold mine."
"For you, perhaps," added Preston. "However, I guess the Old Man has
upset her apple-cart. We won't hear her bell-like notes again in a
hurry."
But he was mistaken. Into the smoke-laden atmosphere wafted the
strident voice of the lady under discussion. She was venting her wrath
upon Olive Baird.