"I am not going to sleep in that tent, Mr. Mostyn," declared Olive, with an air of finality, speaking in a low voice. "I'd much rather curl up on the bottom-boards. It's not nearly so stuffy." "Is it because Mrs. Shallop has been jawing?" asked Peter. "I'll tell you what; there's a square of spare canvas sufficient to rig you up a shelter between those two thwarts." "Don't bother!" exclaimed Mrs. Shallop, who, when she wanted, was marvellously quick of hearing. "You can have the tent. I'll sleep outside." And, before the astonished Peter and Olive could say anything, Mrs. Shallop snatched up the piece of canvas and went for'ard. "She's ashamed of herself and is trying to make good, I think," suggested Mostyn. "Well, your pitch is queered, Miss Baird, but there's the tent." Without a word Olive disappeared behind the flap. Mostyn could rely upon Mahmed to keep his companion "up to scratch", so with an easy mind the Wireless Officer went for'ard, wrapped himself in his oilskin, and was soon sleeping soundly on the bottom-boards. He was awakened by Mahmed at the stipulated hour. In his drowsiness it was some moments before he realized where he was, and it rather perplexed him to find his boy shaking him by the shoulder without the customary "Char, sahib". It was a bright, starlit night. The wind was soft and steady, and the boat was rippling through the water at at least four knots. Going aft, Mostyn peered at the compass. There was sufficient light to enable the helmsman to steer without having to use the candle-lamp of the binnacle. The course was still sou'-east, or four points south of the desired direction. It was as close as the boat could sail; even then she made a lot of leeway. "Not'ing to report, sahib," declared Mahmed. "All right," was the rejoinder. "Carry on." The lascar told off to share Mostyn's watch came aft, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "Me no well, sahib," he said. "Me tink me die." "Take the wheel," ordered Peter, using the term instead of tiller, since the lascar was well acquainted with the word "wheel". The man grasped the tiller without another word. His little ruse was a "wash-out", and, finding that his imaginary ailment received no sympathy, he carried on as if nothing had happened. Mostyn then proceeded to attend to his injured brother-officer, washing his wounds and feeding him with biscuit. Preston was still very weak, but quite rational in his speech. His prolonged sleep had restored his mental powers, but he was unable to move without assistance. "What's happened, old man?" he inquired. "I've been racking my brains to find out how I got laid out. I remember lowering away the boat, and after that everything's a blank." "You got a smack with the lower block swaying," replied Peter. "At least that's what I was told. They didn't pick me up for a couple of hours or more after the ship went down." "And the Old Man?" asked Preston. The Wireless Officer shook his head sadly.