Peter went on watch at ten that night with the unalluring prospect of remaining on duty till midday--perhaps longer--since Partridge and Plover, who had bucked up considerably during the vessel's stay in port, promptly showed signs of internal troubles the moment the bar was crossed.
It was not a prearranged case of malingering. There was no doubt about it: they had been ill. Neither knew of the burning of the oil-tanker, and of the dangerous position of the _West Barbican_ when she proceeded to the rescue, until late on the following morning, and even then they received the news apathetically.
So Mostyn just carried on, pondering over the Company's doubtful economy, since, in addition to his normal pay, he was already raking in a fair sum for overtime in excess of the Merchant Service eight hours per day.
Gravesend was in its wonted late autumn state when the _West Barbican_ dropped anchor. A thick fog entirely blotted out the shore. The air reverberated with the dismal hooting of sirens in every imaginable key; while bells clanging from vessels at anchor added to the din. At intervals the sun shone feebly through the yellow pall, although it was impossible to see twenty feet along the deck. To add to the general discomfort a raw, moist, west wind was blowing down London River, without having sufficient force to disperse the baffling fog.
The _West Barbican_ was two and a half hours late in arriving at Gravesend. If she were to weigh at the scheduled hour the passengers would have to be smart in getting on board with their personal cabin effects. Their heavy baggage had been sent down to the docks and placed in a hold a week previously.
Peter Mostyn had turned in directly the ship dropped anchor. There was a chance of two hours well-earned rest, if rest it could be called, since he lay down on his bunk fully clothed save for his rubber deck-boots. It was one of those frequent occasions when he could not afford to waste precious minutes in dressing and undressing. He was almost too dog-tired to kick off his boots. He was dimly conscious of throwing himself on his bunk and pulling the collar of his greatcoat up over the back of his neck; then he passed into a state of oblivion, notwithstanding the discordant sonata within and without the ship.