"it's about time we had a letter from peter from cape town, isn't it?" inquired mrs. mostyn.
captain mostyn deliberately lighted a cigarette while he worked out a mental sum.
"hardly," he replied. "give the royal mail a chance, old lady. we heard from the boy from las palmas. that ought to keep you satisfied for another week or so. by that time we ought to see the announcement of the west barbican's arrival at pangawani. let me see: it was ten days ago when we saw the news of her departure from durban. by jove, old lady, we'll have a jollification when we know that the steelwork is handed over to the kilba protectorate government."
there was no doubt about it. captain mostyn was worrying over the contract. the actual manufacturing of the bridge material had caused him very little anxiety. the keenness with which he had followed the work, the personal attention he gave to all the details, and the professional supervision of the whole process of manufacture had kept him busy both mentally and physically. but from the time the consignment was shipped on board the west barbican at brocklington he was metaphorically on pins and needles.
the contract was to include delivery at pangawani. there were certain risks in the long sea passage that were to be taken into account. unavoidable accidents might occur, that the most skilful master in the merchant service could not avert. pangawani harbour, with its shifting bar, had a sinister reputation in insurance company circles. that fact had resulted in the refusal of every underwriter whom captain mostyn approached to insure the steelwork to anything like its full value. the best terms he could obtain were 75 per cent, while the west barbican was between the united kingdom and table bay, and 66-2/3 per cent between table bay and pangawani. that meant the bankruptcy of the brocklington ironworks company should the steelwork fail to reach its destination, since every pound of available capital had been sunk in captain mostyn's "great push".
curiously enough, his anxiety was solely for the safety of the steelwork. the knowledge that his son was on the very boat that was taking out the consignment hardly entered into his calculations. an indescribable faith in peter caused him to regard the lad as being well able to take care of himself, happen what might. the ship might be lost, but peter would be sure to come out all right.
captain mostyn and his wife were still discussing the movements of the west barbican, and speculating upon the date of her arrival at pangawani, when one of the maids brought in the evening paper, which was regularly left at the house by a newsboy from the village.
the captain's first consideration was given to the shipping list. the west barbican did not appear.
"i told you so, my dear," he remarked. "we'll have to wait a little longer. let me see; you want the serial page. here you are."
peter's father, always methodical, took a paper-knife from the writing-bureau and carefully cut the newspaper in half. handing the back page to his wife, he settled down to read the news, notwithstanding the fact that most of it was reproduced from the london dailies, which he had already digested early that morning.
mrs. mostyn settled down for a comfortable evening. the fire was burning brightly in the open well-grate, the arm-chair was most comfortable. with the serial page and a half-finished jumper to work at while she read, mrs. mostyn meant to have a quiet and restful evening's amusement.
presently she finished the instalment of the serial. she hardly knew what to think of it. its abrupt ending made her angry with the author, or whoever was responsible for the conclusion, while the thrilling curtain left her on thorns as to what was going to happen in the next instalment. the rest of the page usually contained very little of feminine interest, consisting mainly of sporting topics and lurid testimonials to so-and-so's patent medicines.
quite casually her eye caught sight of a badly printed paragraph in the stop press column. she read it through without the full significance of it coming home to her. then she re-read it slowly and haltingly, as if every word was burning into her brain.
"john!" she exclaimed.
"half a moment, my dear," protested captain mostyn, deep in an article dealing with the coal industry.
"john!" she said again.
captain mostyn glanced over the top of his half of the paper. he did not like being disturbed. it usually meant that his wife had discovered a stupendous bargain in the sales column, with the inevitable result.
"good heavens, old lady!" he ejaculated, greatly alarmed at the grey, drawn expression on his wife's face. "what is it?"
mrs. mostyn did not reply. with trembling hands she gave the paper to her husband, and pointed to the grim announcement in the stop press column:
"lloyd's agent at east london telegraphs, 's.s. maréchal foch arrived here to-day with eighteen lascars, survivors of the s.s. west barbican, which foundered in the mozambique channel on the night of the 22nd. no trace has been found of the ship's officers and the remainder of the crew. survivors cannot give any explanation of how the disaster occurred.'"
"peter!" gasped mrs. mostyn.
her husband was thunderstruck. the gravity of the news had taken him completely aback. he gave no thought to the precious steelwork. his whole concern was for his son.
the bald announcement was serious enough in all conscience. reading between the lines it gave scant hope that there might be other survivors. was it possible that peter had in his prime fallen a victim to the remorseless sea?
"there's nothing very definite, my dear," he remarked as calmly as he could. "perhaps to-morrow we'll hear that some more boats have been picked up. strange things happen at sea."
mrs. mostyn shook her head. after peter's almost miraculous return when given up for dead, after the s.s. donibristle had been reported "overdue, missing, and believed a total loss", she could hardly hope for a second intervention of providence.
"tut, tut," said captain mostyn, his forced manner belying the doubts that assailed him. "why shouldn't he turn up trumps a second time? why, i know an old pensioner at portsmouth who, during his twenty-one years' sea life, was reported killed four times. and he's hale and hearty to-day at eighty-five, or he was when i heard of him a fortnight ago. i'll see my friend parsons at lloyd's to-morrow. he'll keep me posted as to the latest news. peter will be all right, never fear."
but captain mostyn had his doubts. he knew enough about the sea to realize the possibility of his son going down with the ship. he argued that the disaster must have been sudden, since there was no mention of the ill-fated west barbican having sent out wireless messages for aid. that pointed to the vessel foundering in a few minutes; in which case there had not been time to lower all the boats. quite likely the one containing the eighteen lascars was the only one successfully lowered. again, the absence of an officer in the boat pointed to a complete disorganization of discipline. on the face of lloyd's telegraphed report things looked very black indeed.
captain mostyn spent a sleepless night, but he hardly gave another thought to his financial losses. over and over again he tried to reconstruct the scene on board the sinking liner, with the object of convincing himself that his son had escaped with his life. throughout the long night he was building up suggestions and immediately demolishing them on account of an incontestable flaw in the theory.
next day captain mostyn went up to town by his usual train, but, instead of proceeding to the offices of the brocklington ironworks company, he went straight to lloyd's. here he was informed that no further news of the loss of the s.s. west barbican had been received, but the detailed report of the master of the s.s. maréchal foch was expected by cable that day.
the same afternoon there was a hurriedly convened meeting of the directors of the company. none of them had noticed the announcement concerning the west barbican in the papers, and captain mostyn's bald statement came as a complete surprise. no definite steps could be taken until the ship was officially reported lost, and then only would the underwriters pay the 66-2/3 per cent of the value of the steel-work.
a fortnight or more passed, with nothing to break the silence that seemed to be brooding over the loss of the west barbican. for some reason the report of the captain of the maréchal foch had not materialized. it afterwards transpired that he was in hospital at east london.
at last the silence was broken by the receipt of a press association cablegram from port louis, mauritius:
"portuguese sailing ship balsamao, lorenzo marques to goa, arrived here to-day with sixteen europeans and eleven indians, survivors of the s.s. west barbican. names of the europeans as follows: anstey, crawford, m'gee, peterson, fulwood, selwyn, wright, scott, palmer, partridge, plover, smith, fostin, applegarth, and shallop (passenger)."
a ray of hope flashed across the minds of peter's parents. the name "fostin": it was possible that it was a telegraphic error for "mostyn". the conviction grew until captain and mrs. mostyn felt perfectly convinced that the name in question was actually supposed to represent that of their son.
but, alas! disillusionment came next day when captain mostyn paid a visit to the offices of the blue crescent line, and was given a list of the names of the officers and crew of the ill-starred west barbican. amongst them was: "geo. fostin, steward".
"we are afraid to have to admit that captain bullock is amongst the missing," said the secretary of the blue crescent line to captain mostyn. "one of our senior and most experienced skippers, and on his last voyage before retiring. the chief officer, mr. preston, is also missing, also the wireless officer. it can only be surmised that they stuck to the ship to the last and went down with her. the wireless officer's name is—let me see."
the official referred to the list in front of him.
"the same as yours, sir," he continued. "a relation, perhaps?"
"my son," replied captain mostyn sadly yet proudly.
