Peter's Progress
Peter Mostyn's attack lasted a full twenty-four hours, but at seven the
next evening he felt well enough to go down to dinner in the saloon.
That function had become a mere shadow of its former self. On the run
to Cape Town the chairs round the long tables were generally filled,
once the passengers had grown accustomed to life afloat and had
regained their temporarily lost appetites.
Now, the saloon looked almost deserted. Captain Bullock was in his
customary place at the head of the table, most of the officers not on
duty were present--a mere handful all told. Of the passengers only
eight remained. Of these, five were to be landed at Beira and taken on
to their destinations by a "Bullard" boat. The remaining three were
Mr. and Mrs. Shallop and Olive Baird.
Since Mrs. Shallop's encounter with the skipper she had fought shy of
the saloon when the Old Man was present, and was in the habit of having
her evening meal in the seclusion of her cabin. Although this
arrangement was contrary to the Company's rules and regulations Captain
Bullock winked at it; the rest of the saloon congratulated themselves,
and even Shallop, away from the disturbing influence of his wife's
presence, seemed a different man. In fact, on several occasions his
dry and somewhat humorous remarks set everyone laughing.
The temporary retirement of Mrs. Shallop had given Olive much more
leisure. At first the selfish woman had tried her level best to compel
the girl to share her self-imposed seclusion, but Olive had firmly
declined to submit. She had already endured considerable discomfort on
her employer's behalf, and had borne the almost continuous "nagging"
without a murmur; but now the breaking-strain had been exceeded, and
the bullying woman had to admit defeat.
Consequently Peter saw Olive a good deal. They were firm pals. There
was nothing sloppishly sentimental about the girl. She was merely a
jolly little person emerging from the temporary cloud of reserve caused
by the depressing influence of the naval captain's daughter.
She had been fully initiated into the mysteries of the wireless-room;
she had taken equal interest in the complicated machinery of the
engine-room; and, since leaving Cape Town, Captain Bullock had given
her permission to go on the bridge whenever she wished. She had coaxed
Anstey into showing her how to "shoot the sun" and to use the _Nautical
Almanac_ in order to work out the ship's position. Even the _secuni_
in the wheelhouse so far forgot his duty as to allow the Missie Sahib
to take the wheel.
But undoubtedly her interest was keenest in sailing. Both Preston and
Anstey had promised to give her a run in one of the _West Barbican's_
sailing-boats while the ship was at Durban. This promise they
severally performed, but to a certain extent the beat to windward and
the run home on the spacious but shallow water of the harbour was a
disappointment to Olive--since neither man had offered to let her take
the tiller.
Dinner over--Peter had very little appetite--Olive Baird went on deck,
and somehow, whether by accident or design, Mostyn found her standing
on the starboard side of the promenade-deck, gazing at the moon as it
rose apparently out of the Indian Ocean.
"What a topping evening, Mr. Mostyn," observed the girl. "Just fine
for a sail."
She gave a glance at one of the quarter-boats, an eighteen-foot gig
fitted with a centre-board.
"'Fraid it can't be done," remarked Peter, with a laugh. "Stopping
vessels in mid-ocean for the purpose of giving lady passengers a spin
in one of the boats isn't usual. Might work it when we arrive at
Bulonga. You're fond of sailing, I notice."
"I love it," declared the girl enthusiastically. "Do you?"
"Yes, rather," agreed Peter; "so long as there's not too much of it."
"There never could be too much as far as I am concerned," protested
Olive. "What do you mean by too much?"
"Well, for instance, a two-hundred mile run in a boat of about that
size," replied the Wireless Officer, indicating the centre-board gig.
"I tried that sort of thing once, but the boat never reached her
destination."
"Tell me about it," commanded Miss Baird. "Were you single-handed?"
"No," replied Peter. "There were three fellows and a girl. We got
wrecked."
For nearly three-quarters of an hour Olive listened intently to
Mostyn's account of the escape from the pirate island in the North
Pacific; the narrator with his natural modesty touching but lightly
upon his share of the desperate enterprise.
"And where is the girl now?" inquired Olive.
"She married my chum Burgoyne," replied Peter. "I had a letter from
him when we were at Cape Town. Burgoyne is a jolly lucky fellow."
"We had a sailing-boat of our own once," said Olive, her mind going
back to those far-off days before she had a stepmother to make things
unpleasant for her. "I used to sail quite a lot on the Tamar when we
lived at Saltash."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Peter to himself. "I felt certain I'd seen
her before, but I couldn't for the life of me say where."
For a few moments he remained silent, making a mental calculation.
"Was it in 1913?" he inquired. "Didn't you have a bright, varnished
boat with a teak topstrake and a red standing lugsail? And you were
about eight or nine then. You used to have your hair bobbed, and wore
a white jersey and a scarlet stocking cap?"
"However did you know that?" asked Olive in astonishment.
"Because we had a yacht moored just above the red powder hulks. My
father held an appointment at Keyham Dockyard, you see; and whenever he
had a home billet he kept a yacht or boat of some sort. Sailing was
his favourite pastime."
But Olive was paying scant heed to the description of Mostyn _pere_ as
set forth by Mostyn _fils_. Her thoughts too were flying back to those
halcyon days before the war.
"I believe I remember you," she said at length. "Weren't you on board
a white yawl of about six tons, with a green boot-top and rather a high
cabin top?"
"That was the _Spindrift_, my pater's yacht," declared Peter. "And----"
"And you were about ten or eleven, with a freckly face," pursued Miss
Baird calmly. "You were a horrid little wretch in those days, because
I distinctly remember you laughing at me when the halliard jammed and I
couldn't get the sail either up or down."
"Guilty, Miss Baird," said Peter. "I apologize. Give me a chance to
make amends and I'll be all over it."
"I will," agreed the girl. "You may take me for a sail in Bulonga
Harbour; but you mustn't be selfish, like Mr. Preston and Mr. Anstey.
You will let me take the tiller, won't you?"
Peter gave the required promise. He felt highly pleased with himself.
Anstey was evidently in disfavour because he had underrated Olive's
capabilities as a helmswoman. In addition, the Third Officer would be
fairly busy while the _West Barbican_ was in harbour, as the steelwork
had to be taken out of the hold. Reminiscences of youth spent in the
West Country, too, were mutual and sympathetic bonds between the
Wireless Officer and the girl. No wonder he was feeling highly elated.
"What sort of a place is Bulonga?" asked Olive.
"Haven't the faintest idea," replied Peter. "Never heard of the show
until a day or two ago. Don't expect a second Durban, Miss Baird. If
you do you'll be disappointed. I shouldn't be at all surprised if it's
a pestilential mud-hole. By Jove, it's close on eight bells, and it's
my watch."
Half an hour later Mostyn "took in" a message from Durban addressed to
Miss Baird. It contained the brief announcement that Mr. and Mrs.
Gregory--Olive's relations to whom she was on her way--were returning
to England in three days' time, and that Olive's passage-money home was
lying at the Company's offices at Durban.