On deck most of the hands were "standing easy", which meant that they were not standing, but lying under the lee of the raised coamings of the fore hatch and in other sheltered spots. Some were "snatching forty winks", others were industriously patching and sewing, and yarning with their messmates. It was the First Dog—Jack's so-called spell of leisure during which no unnecessary work is supposed to be performed.
A number of men grouped under the break of the poop attracted Geoff's attention. They were engaged in "knocking up" a contrivance that resembled an obstacle used in horse-jumping. It consisted of a piece of "six-by-two" timber, of about seven feet in length, supported at a height of thirty inches or so above the deck by two X-shaped struts, the whole being rigidly secured by a complication of stays and guys set up by means of tackles.
Curiosity prompted the chums to go closer and inspect the "gadget". As they did so, Third Officer Peter Kelso, who was superintending the setting up of the contrivance, gave them a cheery recognition.
"Feeling fit an' merry an' bright, an' all that sort of thing?" he inquired.
"Quite, sir; thanks," replied Bernard.
"Sorry we haven't been able to report that you're on board," continued the Third. "We haven't seen a homeward bound ship to speak to since you fellows came aboard. The chances are we won't, because our sailing track takes us well out of the steamship routes; so it may mean a cable from Rio."
"When do you think we'll arrive at Rio, sir?" asked Geoff, somewhat anxiously. Keeping his people without news for a few days when they had little reason to expect any was one thing. A complete silence for weeks was quite a different proposition.
"Can't say," replied Mr. Kelso. "Last time the Vanity took six weeks, I'm told. I wasn't in her that trip. The worst of it is that we can't send any message."
The chums made no remark concerning this information. Already they had learnt that it is as well not to be too inquisitive on board. Nevertheless, they felt a bit curious concerning Kelso's statement. They had noticed the Golden Vanity's twin aerial set up between spreaders at the fore and main trucks.
"Result of strike of wireless operators," continued the Third. "So we're just carrying on without 'em."
There was a contemptuous ring in the Mercantile Marine Officer's voice. Of the reasons for "calling out" the operators he knew little and cared less. But, with the rest of the deck officers of the Merchant Service, he felt nothing but disgust at the action of a body of men who, on the strength of a certificate from the Postmaster-General, had secured posts as operators afloat. These, wearing officers' uniforms and claiming to be recognized as officers, had deserted their posts, regardless of the fact that they were exposing their former shipmates to risks that might otherwise be avoided. Not that Merchantman Jack minded very much. His forefathers "carried on" without wireless. He could do the same.
It was a very shame-faced Sparks who had gone ashore from the Golden Vanity just before she left the docks. He went with downcast head amidst the contemptuous silence of the pukka officers. No encouraging cheers from the men—members of the Seaman's Union—greeted his departure—only an ironical shout from a slightly inebriated deck-hand: "Women an' children first!"
Quite possibly the crew recalled a certain tragic incident during a former wireless operators' strike. In mid-winter, battered by a furious Atlantic gale, a British tramp steamer was foundering. Thirty luckless wretches were seeking a temporary respite on her bridge. Everything else was awash. A wireless message would have brought aid, but there was no operator. The lights of a passing vessel hove in sight. The desperate men signalled her—or tried to—but the message was misunderstood. Thinking it to be one of good cheer, the steamer signalled back "A Merry Christmas" and passed on, leaving the crew of the sinking vessel to their fate.
"All ready?" inquired Third Officer Kelso, his attention swinging back to the work on hand. "Very good; bring her along and fix her up."
The object referred to in the feminine gender was the outboard motor that according to his promise to Captain Corbold, Peter Kelso had carefully overhauled. He was now about to put his efforts to a practical test.
Under the centre of the massively supported beam was placed a large galvanized iron pail filled with water. To the beam the motor was securely clamped with its propeller and circulating pump immersed.
With the air of a conjurer, Kelso stepped forward and drew on his right hand a thick leather glove. The glove was a necessary precaution, since the palm and two fingers of his right hand were raw as the result of his previous struggle with the refractory motor. Behind him in a semicircle were most of the crew, the Chief and several of the cadets being in the front row of Kelso's appreciative audience.
At that moment Captain Corbold appeared upon the scene.
"Why didn't you inform me you were ready, Mr. Kelso?" he inquired.
"Sorry, sir," replied the Third. "I wanted a sort of dummy run to see that everything was in order before you came on deck."
"H'm! I suppose you did," rejoined the Old Man. "Well, do you think you'll get her going now?"
"Hope so," said Mr. Kelso cheerfully. "I've overhauled everything, filed up the platinum points, and decreased the spark gap to give her a chance of firing readily. She ought to fire with that magneto. It's not one of those idiotic flywheel type."
"Quite so," agreed the Captain of the Golden Vanity. "Quite so."
Not that he knew anything whatsoever concerning the theory of the internal combustion engine. The average schoolboy could give him points and leave him at the post in that respect. As a Master Mariner he knew the ins and outs of his profession from A to Z. Had he contented himself with that all would have been well. Unfortunately, he disliked to have to admit that any of his subordinate officers knew more of other subjects than he did. Kelso, for example, might have "pulled his leg" mercilessly over the matter of the outboard motor, and the Old Man would have merely looked wise and grunted assent to all and any suggestions the Third might make.
But Peter Kelso was in deadly earnest. Whatever task he undertook he put heart and soul into it. He looked upon it as a point of honour to "get that dashed box of tricks running somehow".
Giving a final glance at the air-throttle contacts, Peter Kelso grasped the knob of the flywheel and swung the metal disc vigorously. Beyond a fairly loud gurgle, reminiscent of a burly Prussian swallowing soup, the motor remained silent.
Three times the young Officer repeated the operation, each time with waning confidence. Then he removed the sparking plug, shook it, and displaced a minute quantity of petrol.
"Too rich a mixture, sir," he explained.
"Haven't we any cheaper stuff on board?" inquired the Old Man innocently. At this Cadet Merrifield tittered, and immediately tried to switch over to a badly simulated cough. Captain Corbold gave the luckless youngster one glance. Thereafter, for the rest of the performance and after, joy and laughter deserted the unlucky cadet.
Replacing the plug, Kelso tried again and again to coax the unresponsive motor into a state of activity. Beads of perspiration welled from his forehead and trickled in rivulets down his face.
"Are you sure you've turned the petrol on?" asked the Old Man.
Considering that petrol had been dripping from the lavishly "tickled" carburettor during the whole performance the question was an entirely superfluous one. Even the least intelligent of the hands knew that.