As a class, too, they were resented by the wireless staff proper. Not only would the employment of Watchers tend to diminish the numbers of _pukka_ wireless officers serving afloat; but the wireless officer on a ship carrying Watchers would be always on duty although not actually in the cabin. Instead of taking "tricks" with his "opposite number" he would be liable to be summoned by the Watchers on duty at any hour of the day or night, simply because his assistant could not, and would not be allowed to, receive or send out messages. "Is this your first voyage?" asked Peter, addressing the taller Watcher. "Yes," was the reply. "Yes, what?" demanded Mostyn sharply. "Yes, sir." "That's better," continued Peter, as he unlocked the door, the two lads having summoned up enough physical energy to stand aside. "What's your name?" "Partridge,"--pause--"sir." "And yours?" "Plover, sir." "Weird birds," soliloquized Mostyn; "but perhaps they'll lick into shape." His first impression of the interior of the cabin was not a good one. The _West Barbican_ had been laid up for nearly four months, and, although her late Sparks had conscientiously carried out his written instructions as to the precautions to be taken when "packing up", the prolonged period of idleness had not improved the appearance of the apparatus. In spite of a liberal coating of vaseline the brasswork was mottled with verdigris; moisture covered the ebonite and vulcanite keys; the roof had been leaking, the course of the water being indicated by a trail of iron rust upon the white paint. Dust covered everything, while the absence of fresh air, owing to the scuttles having been secured for months, was distressingly noticeable. "Phew! What a reek!" exclaimed Peter, stepping backwards into the open and nearly colliding with the impassive Mahmed. "Char, sahib." Mostyn gulped down the hot beverage, and literally girded up his loins for direct action. "Nip below," he ordered, addressing the still torpid Partridge. "Get hold of a bucket of hot water, a squeegee, and some swabs. Look lively, Plover; get busy with those scuttles. Open all of them. Scuttles, man; those round glass windows, if you like." Watcher Plover tackled his allotted task with a zest that rather surprised his superior officer, but it was not until five minutes later that Peter found the Watcher trying to unbolt the brass rims instead of unthreading the locking screw. "Belay there," exclaimed Mostyn. "Don't take the whole of the cabin down. Let me show----" His words were interrupted by a metallic clatter followed by sounds of falling water. Watcher Partridge's hob-nailed boots had slipped on the brass treads of the ladder, and he had finished up ingloriously upon the deck, sprawling upon his back in a puddle of coal-grimed water.