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.