The Completion of the Contract
It was too late to commence unloading that day. Peter, having notified
the authorities of the arrival of the consignment, and having arranged
for the Government surveyor to inspect the steelwork on the following
afternoon, made his way to the Davis's bungalow.
So far all was well. The time-limit fixed for the delivery of the
Brocklington Ironworks Company's contract was still forty-eight hours
off, and there was no apparent reason why the stipulated conditions
should not be complied with.
Olive greeted him warmly. Mr. and Mrs. Davis made him welcome with
typical overseas sincerity, and he spent a most enjoyable evening.
At daybreak gangs of natives were set to work to clear the _Quilboma's_
hold. By noon the bulk of the steelwork lay upon the quayside. At
four in the afternoon the material was examined, tested, and passed by
the representative of the Kilba Protectorate Government, and an hour
later Peter sent another cablegram to his father:
"Contract completed O.K. Official confirmation follows."
This pleasurable duty performed, Mostyn went to pay Mahmed a visit. He
found his boy progressing favourably, his many wounds having healed
without any sign of complications.
"We'll soon be able to send you back to India, Mahmed," said Peter.
"Me no want go India, sahib," protested Mahmed. "Me stay all one-time
with you. Me good cook, me wash-brush sahib's clothes. Me do
eb'rything."
"But I'm going back to England," announced his master. "There I don't
know what will happen. I may not get another ship for a very long
time."
"No matter," rejoined Mahmed, with sublime optimism. "Me stay with
sahib. Me make _char_ for sahib."
Peter left it at that. He little knew that Mahmed spoke with the
tongue of prophecy.
Later on in the evening the Head Commissioner sent for him.
"Are you in a pressing hurry to get home, Mr. Mostyn?" he inquired,
after congratulating him upon the successful voyage and happy
termination of his trip on the S.S. _Quilboma_.
Peter thought not. Providing that he was not detained to give evidence
in the Skeets case, he was in no immediate hurry. Apart from the
pleasure of meeting his parents again, he was not particularly keen
upon returning to England.
He was well aware of the state of affairs in the wireless service at
home; how hundreds of skilled operators were "on the beach" through no
fault of their own, and that the prospect of immediate re-engagement
was very remote. Wireless officers were just now much in the same
position as Tommy Atkins. While there was a war on, and wireless men
were in great demand for sea-service, the various shipping companies
were almost falling over each other and themselves in their efforts to
secure skilled operators. Now that the war is ancient history, and sea
risks are falling to pre-1914 level, the services of wireless officers
are no longer in great demand. The slump in shipping has dealt a
severe blow to radio-telegraphists.
"Quite so," agreed the Head Commissioner, when Mostyn had stated his
views. "As a matter of fact we are developing wireless communication
in the Protectorate as we find it far cheaper than and quite as
efficient as ordinary telegraphy. Setting up telegraph posts for
elephants and rhinos to butt into is an expensive game. So I sent for
you. I can offer you a really good Government appointment, with free
quarters, and splendid prospects of rapid promotion. You're just the
type of fellow I want; so what do you say?"
Peter did not reply. He was thinking deeply, struggling with a very
complex proposition.
"And six months leave in England on full pay every two years, with free
passage out and back," added the Head Commissioner, as an extra
inducement--a bait that had often beforetimes turned the scale.
"Thanks awfully, sir," said Peter, "but I'd like to have some time to
think things over."
"Certainly," agreed the official, but at the same time he felt rather
disappointed. He had been fully prepared to find that Mostyn would
jump at the tempting offer. According to what he had heard, Mostyn was
a man of action. It rather puzzled him that the Wireless Officer
should hesitate to close with the offer of a rattling good post. "Take
a day to think things over and then let me know."
As soon as the interview was at an end Peter hurried round to consult
his older and, perhaps, more experienced chum Preston.
He found the Acting Chief sitting in a deck-chair under the veranda of
the club-house. Preston, like Mahmed, was making a rapid recovery, and
already he was able to walk for a few yards with the aid of a stick.
"You silly young blighter!" he exclaimed, when Peter told him of his
interview with the Head Commissioner. "Why on earth didn't you jump at
it? The pay they're offering you is equal to a cool L800 a year at
home, to say nothing of extras chucked in. By Jove! If it had been
me---- I suppose there aren't any more plums knocking around for a
has-been shellback of forty like me?"
"I didn't jump at it, old man," replied Peter slowly. "I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"On Miss Baird's account," explained Mostyn. "You know I promised to
see her safely back to England, and I simply couldn't go back on my
word."
Preston grunted.
"Is she so very keen on going?" he demanded. "From what I've heard and
seen I don't think she is. Look here, Mostyn, old son. I'm going to
be the Grand Inquisitor for once, being almost old enough to be your
father. Are you fond of the girl?"
"Yes," replied Peter without hesitation. He was sure on _that_ point.
"And is she fond of you?" continued the Grand Inquisitor.
"Think so," was the non-committal reply. "Not so sure about it,
though," he added.
"I think I am," rejoined Preston, with a dry chuckle. "I've been
keeping my eye upon the pair of you for some considerable time back.
Look here, old son; you're a decent sort of fellow with a clean run an'
all that. That's what counts with a girl, after all's said and done.
You've been offered a rattling good berth with nothing of the 'blind
alley' touch about it. All you want now is a sheet-anchor--a jolly
sensible girl as a life-partner; one with whom you're not likely to
part brass-rags in less than a twelvemonth. Bit of a mixed metaphor,
isn't it; but you know what I mean? That girl is Miss Baird; so don't
stand hanging on to the slack. Ask her to be your wife."
Peter said nothing. He was very agreeably surprised to hear the
hitherto matter-of-fact Acting Chief launching out upon such a subject.
"For goodness sake don't think that I'm starting a matrimonial agency
stunt, old thing," continued Preston. "I know many a young fellow
who's run aground on the rocks 'cause he's been a fool to get spliced
without looking ahead. You're different. There, I've had my say.
Full speed ahead and you'll win. And good luck to you."
Thanking his old chum, Mostyn went off feeling considerably elated.
Preston's views completely coincided with his own, and the Acting
Chief's words of encouragement helped to fill up the gap in Peter's
resolution.
The ordeal in front of him was a trying one, he expected; far more
stupendous and momentous than he had ever experienced. His adventures
while on the books of the S.S. _Donibristle_ and the S.S. _West
Barbican_ were light by comparison.
"No use putting things off," he decided; and, acting upon this
resolution, he presented himself at the Davis's bungalow.
Not the shadow of a chance did he have to broach the momentous subject
to Olive. Davis and his wife were so hospitable that they never left
Peter and Olive alone for one moment.
At eleven, with his mind still unburdened, Mostyn returned to his
quarters.
At dawn, after a restless night, he arose, bathed, shaved, and dressed,
and went out.
He was by no means the only early riser. The white population of
Pangawani make a point of getting exercise before the heat of the
tropical day. Watching from afar Peter saw signs of activity at the
Davis's bungalow. Native grooms were leading three ponies round to the
front of the veranda.
Five minutes later Peter strolled, outwardly unconcerned, past the
house, just as Olive and her host and hostess were coming out.
"Hello, old man!" exclaimed Davis. "Topping morning, isn't it? We're
off for a canter through the orange groves. Come along."
"Yes, do," added the two ladies.
"Delighted," replied Peter.
Davis shouted to a native groom to saddle another pony.
Mostyn eyed the mount with a certain degree of misgiving. He would
have been perfectly at home in the saddle of a motor-bicycle at
anything up to fifty miles an hour. There the control was entirely in
his own hands. A pony, he reflected, isn't a machine; it is an animal
possessing brains and possibly an obstinate will. If the brute took it
into his head to exceed ten miles an hour Peter wouldn't guarantee to
keep his seat. He didn't profess to be a horseman, but in the
circumstances he simply had to risk it and take his chance.
His horsemanship was far better than he had expected it to be, although
Olive gave him points on the management of a pony. It was an
exhilarating canter along the stretch of broad, white sands, followed
by a steady climb to the summit of Mohollo Head.
"Pull up for a minute, Olive," suggested Peter. "My pony is a bit
winded, I think. Let's admire the view."
Quite naturally the girl fell in with the suggestion. Davis and his
wife were still riding on ahead.
It was an ideal morning. The sun was still low in the eastern sky. A
fresh breeze stirred the broad leaves of the coco-palms. The foam
lashed itself upon the distant reef, while within the rocky barrier the
water was as calm as a mill-pond.
"Isn't this topping!" exclaimed Peter, with a comprehensive sweep of
his arm.
"Delightful," agreed Olive. "I shall be very sorry to have to say
good-bye to Pangawani."
The girl's whole-hearted admiration gave Mostyn the looked-for opening.
With sailor-like alertness he seized the opportunity.
"Then why leave Pangawani?" he asked.
Olive looked at him wonderingly.
"What do you mean, Peter?" she asked. "When do you think you will be
going home?"
"In two years time, I hope," he replied. "But that depends upon you."
"Upon me?" rejoined the girl, a faint colour stealing across her
half-averted face, as she suddenly realized the point of her
companion's remarks.
"Well, you see," explained Mostyn, "I've been offered a Government post
out here--a jolly good one. I couldn't accept it because I hadn't
spoken to you about it. We agreed, I think, that I should be your
guardian--'guardian' is a rotten term, isn't it?--until I saw you
safely home."
"Don't, please, let that stand in your way," said Olive.
"It will," declared Peter, "unless----"
* * * * *
Five minutes or so later Davis exclaimed to his wife: "Hello! Where
are the others?"
"I don't know," was the reply. "I quite thought they were following.
Trot back and see; I'll wait here."
Another five minutes and Davis rejoined his wife. Deliberately he
dismounted, charged a pipe, and lit it.
"There's no hurry," he reported. "They're quite all right. I saw from
a distance that I was _de trop_, so I beat a strategic retreat."
Davis finished his pipe, filled up and lit another.
At length the sound of the now walking ponies' hoofs upon the soft
ground announced the arrival of the laggards. Then into the glade rode
Peter and Olive, both looking radiantly happy.
"Congratulate me, old man!" said Peter excitedly He did not need to
explain.
Davis rammed his still-burning pipe into his pocket--he had good cause
to remember it later--and extended a sun-burnt hand.
"You lucky dog!" he exclaimed.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Wireless Officer, by Percy F. Westerman