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 père 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.
