CHAPTER XV
Unpopularity
A few days later Mostyn was having an easy time. He was on watch, butwith little to do. A notice-board on the promenade-deck furnished thereason 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 werewritten in chalk. Placed for the convenience of passengers wishing tosend off private wireless messages, it duly recorded what ships andshore stations were within radio range. In her present position in theSouth Atlantic she was too far away to dispatch or pick up messagesfrom Cape Town, the radius of her wireless being limited to 240 milesby day and almost thrice that distance by night.
Peter had overhauled the set, and was taking the opportunity of writinghome. With his white patrol-coat unbuttoned and his _solar topee_perched on the back of his head, he was making the best of things inspite of the terrific heat and the attentions of numerous cockroaches.
There were thousands of these insects all over the ship, ranging insize from an eighth of an inch to nearly three inches in length.Whilst the _West Barbican_ was in home waters their presence wasinvisible. 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. Bythis time the passengers had grown more or less accustomed to them, butthe early stages of the invasion of the living pests of the ship hadcaused great consternation and indignation, especially on the part ofthe ladies on board.
In times of boredom, when the passengers were "fed up" with deck-quoitsand sweepstakes on the "day's run", the cockroaches would be pressedinto service to provide entertainment. A dozen or more would becaptured and placed on the deck, each having its own particular"fancier" in a miniature race, and it was surprising to see with whatzest the passengers entered into the sport.
Presently Peter heard a light footfall on the deck, followed by adistinct knock upon the wide-open door of the cabin.
Rising, Peter found that Olive Baird was standing outside thebrass-rimmed coaming.
"Good morning, Mr. Mostyn," she said. "Will you mind telling me if amessage can be sent to Cape Town? And how much per word, please?"
"Sorry, Miss Baird," he replied, "we aren't in touch with any shorestation. We may possibly get the Cape Town one to-morrow night."
At the back of his mind Peter found himself wondering why Miss Bairdhadn't gone to the trouble of reading the announcement on thenotice-board. He was rather glad she hadn't--perhaps she had purposelyignored it. It gave him an opportunity of entering into conversationwith the girl.
Already Anstey had found out quite a lot about Olive Baird. How, herefused to divulge, but it was pretty certain that the girl had let outlittle or nothing.
Olive Baird was motherless. Her father had married again to a womanonly five years older than his daughter, and, instinctively scentingdomestic trouble in the near future, Olive had determined to earn herown living--a task that she had already found to be far more difficultthan the cultured girl had imagined.
Almost at the end of her resources--for she knew that she would receiveneither sympathy nor help from her estranged parent--Olive remembered adistant relation, a girl but a few years older than herself, who hadmarried an official holding an appointment in the Kenya Colony.
To her Olive wrote, asking if there might be any post open to her inthe district. Three months elapsed before the reply came--that therewas a warm welcome awaiting her. Enclosed was a banker's draft,enough, and only enough, to pay for her passage out and to provide anecessary and simple outfit.
Before the _West Barbican_ was many days out Mrs. Shallop, in one ofher few amiable moods, had asked the friendless and reserved girl ifshe would, for a small remuneration, give her a couple of hours a dayfor the purpose of reading to her.
"My eyes aren't what they were," explained Mrs. Shallop. "And it'sdeadly dull on this ship when I can't even read."
So Olive thankfully accepted the post, because it helped her to pay herway; 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 supposedbenefactress. Mrs. Shallop was vain, boastful, and with no regard forveracity. She was one of those persons who, having told the same fairytale over and over again, firmly believe that the lie is the truth. Onthe other hand, her memory was defective, with the result that veryfrequently her story had a totally different setting when told a secondor third time. In addition, she was bitingly sarcastic, and was neverknown 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 courseof conversation with other passengers she was careful not to say a wordthat might be detrimental to Mrs. Shallop. Evidently that lady thoughtshe might, for Argus-like she kept a strict watch upon her.
The Shallops had taken "Round Trip" tickets. These were issued by theBlue Crescent Line, and guaranteed a voyage of not less than threemonths. If by any chance, as was frequently the case, the voyage wasprolonged, the holder of the ticket scored, for he or she wasmaintained at the Company's expense until the ship returned home or thepassengers transferred to another vessel of the Company's bound forEngland.
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 wantedvalue for their outlay, and the round trip in the _West Barbican_pointed that way. Mr. Shallop was not keen on the voyage. It was hiswife 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 theyhad gone on a palatial P. & O. mail-boat. It sounded grander than theBlue Crescent Line.
By this time the heat was beginning to tell upon the portly Mrs.Shallop. There were actually long intervals in which her stridentvoice failed to lacerate the ears of her fellow-passengers.
This was one of them. Wanting to do "the thing" and send a wirelessmessage to her sister in Cape Town, Mrs. Shallop was too fatigued tomount the bridge-ladder; her husband had sheepishly slunk away to thesmoking-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 outburstof candour, he added: "You haven't seen our wireless-room."
"I should love to," rejoined Olive, who had the modern girl's leaningstowards anything of a scientific nature. "I always wanted to see whatit was like and how it worked, but I didn't like to ask you."
Without more ado Mostyn proceeded to explain the mysteries of thatsteel-walled house, unconsciously launching out into an intricatetechnical lecture on wave-lengths, atmospherics, induced current, valveand spark-gaps, until Olive was quite bewildered.
"There's nothing doing," he remarked, after the girl had placed thetelephone ear-pieces to her shapely ears. "We're too far away fromland. But I'll disconnect the aerial and let you see a ripping spark."
"Another time, Mr. Mostyn," demurred Olive. "Mrs. Shallop will wonderwhat I've been doing."
Calling silent maledictions upon the head of the tartar, Peter escortedthe girl to the head of the bridge-ladder, extorting a promise that shewould pay another visit to the wireless-cabin when the ship got withinradiographic range.
"Or earlier if you like," he added.
He watched her disappear from sight and slowly made his way back to thecabin. Somehow the home-letter proceeded slowly and disjointedly. Hewas thinking of the jolly little girl who took such an interest inwireless.
Poor Peter! If he had only known how he had tired her almost to theverge of boredom.
Ten minutes after Miss Baird's departure Mostyn "got busy". Away tothe starboard a vessel was calling CQ. The note was ver
y faint andconsiderably hampered by atmospherics.
He was still endeavouring to tune in to the correct wave-length when hewas interrupted by a vigorous punch between the shoulder-blades. Overhis 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 thehappy knack of keeping his feelings well under control. In the presentcircumstances he felt inclined to expostulate vehemently.
For one thing, he had a rooted dislike for the woman. For another, shehad no right to be on the bridge, unless for the purpose of sending offa message or by the skipper's permission. Neither reason held justthen. The wireless-cabin was closed for private transmission; she hadnot obtained the Old Man's sanction to be on the bridge.
The fact that Miss Baird had been on that spot only a few minutespreviously hardly entered into Mostyn's calculations. Unconsciously hehad allowed himself to be influenced by personal considerations, and hehad forgotten that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for thegander.
With a deprecatory gesture of his left hand Mostyn attempted to conveythe impression that he was busy. His attention had to be concentratedon the CQ message if he were to understand its import. It wasdifficult 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 whoexpected 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 thatwon't work with me, young man. Isn't my money as good as anyoneelse's? Don't you know that I'm the daughter of a naval----"
Mostyn removed the telephones and stood up. There was an ominous glintin his eyes. His forbearance was nearing the breaking-point.
"I can only refer you to the notice-board on the promenade-deck," hesaid. "That and the intimation that passengers are forbidden on thebridge except with the Captain's permission. If you have any cause forcomplaint, please report to Captain Bullock. I must ask you to leavethe wireless-cabin at once."
Mrs. Shallop recoiled as if she had received a blow on the face. Shehad expected no opposition. The quiet, decisive, and deliberate tonesof the young Wireless Officer had completely taken the wind out of hersails.
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 andunexpected entrance of the tartar caused Wilkins's attention to wander,with the result that a crimson streak discoloured the lather on theskipper's chin.
Captain Bullock had, according to his usual custom, decided to removehis beard when approaching the Cape, and the operation was welladvanced when Mrs. Shallop intruded at a very inopportune moment.
She failed to recognize the skipper shorn of his beard and with hisface plastered with soap.
"Where's the Old Man?" she demanded heatedly.
What was the exact nature of Captain Bullock's reply Mostyn was unableto hear. With his mouth full of soap and his chin bleeding profuselythe Old Man's articulation was a trifle confused; but he certainly didlet himself go, with the result that the interrupter, in spite of heroft-reiterated claim to be a lady, was unceremoniously requested toremove herself to a region considerably warmer than the skipper'scabin, the temperature of which was registering 130 deg. in the shade.
Chuckling to himself, Peter saw the discomfited Mrs. Shallop descendthe bridge-ladder with more haste than dignity; then he tried, but invain, 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 thealteration effected by the removal of the skipper's beard, the newlyshaven portion contrasting forcibly with the brick-red tan of the restof his face.
"Tell me," began the Captain, "what was that old barge doing in thewireless-cabin?"
Peter explained.
The Old Man nodded eagerly.
"You did the right thing, my boy," he remarked "I've had enough--morethan enough--of that impossible woman. I told her that in future sheis not to come on the bridge on any pretext whatsoever. If she wantsto send a message, let her; but she must do so in writing and submit itto 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 wasimproving considerably, although he could never become an operator. Helacked the education and intelligence necessary for the work, but bythis time he was able to discriminate between various signals and toknow the Morse call for the ship. Consequently Peter's watch below wasnot subject to numerous and unnecessary interruptions.
"Hello, Sparks!" exclaimed Preston, as Mostyn blew into thesmoking-room. "So you've been up against it this time. Tell us allabout it."
There were about half a dozen passengers, the Acting Chief Officer, andtwo of the engineers off duty passing a pleasant hour. All seemedeager to know full particulars of the encounter.
"She's an unmitigated nuisance," declared an artist, proceeding toNatal in order to paint some frescoes for one of the importantbuildings. "We'll all be reduced to nervous wrecks before we see thelast of her. Can't we choke her off?"
"For Heaven's sake don't, old chap," protested Comyn, his cabin-mate, atall, lean-faced, literary man. "I bear the brunt of it. Everymorning I get a dose of it until I know every shred of her personalhistory in spite of the fact that the details vary as consistently asdoes the ship's position. It is priceless. I revel in it. Wouldn'tmiss it for worlds; I encourage her, in fact."
"'Tany rate," interposed Alderton grimly, "she called you a lankyreptile."
"Perhaps," rejoined the unruffled author. "If it comes to that, shesaid you were a little worm. There's no end of fun making out that youbelieve all Mrs. Shallop tells you. It's a little gold mine."
"For you, perhaps," added Preston. "However, I guess the Old Man hasupset her apple-cart. We won't hear her bell-like notes again in ahurry."
But he was mistaken. Into the smoke-laden atmosphere wafted thestrident voice of the lady under discussion. She was venting her wrathupon Olive Baird.