Presently the Indian messenger returned with a faint trace of a smile on his olivine features. "No go, sahib," he announced. "He ill--very sick like to die." Mostyn shrugged his shoulders and "carried on". Fortunately he had had a fairly good night's rest. The treble trick he could endure with equanimity, buoyed up by the hope that the indisposition of his two inefficient assistants would be of short duration, especially as the _West Barbican_ was due to berth in Brocklington Dock by six the next morning. Before long the weather began to get decidedly dirty. The haze that had been hanging over the coast had vanished, but to the east'ard banks of ragged-edged indigo-coloured clouds betokened a hard blow before very long. The wind, too, had backed from sou'-sou'-east to nor'-nor'-east, and was rapidly increasing in force. The _West Barbican_ was not belying her reputation for rolling. In the wireless cabin, between forty and fifty feet above the sea, everything of a movable nature was slithering to and fro with each long-drawn oscillation of the ship. More than once Peter had to grip the table to prevent his chair sliding bodily across the deck. The wind was thrumming through the shrouds, and whistling through the still open scuttles, while the aerial vibrated like a tuning fork in the shrieking blast. It was one of those sudden gales that play havoc with small craft, especially in the comparatively shallow waters of the North Sea; but, although Peter kept a vigilant look out for SOS signals, the air was remarkably free from radio calls. At intervals he could hear a peculiar buzzing in the ear-pieces--a noise that he knew from previous experience to be distant rain. A shadow darkened the cabin. Peter turned his head and saw Anstey, the Third Officer, standing in the doorway. He was prepared for the storm, his head being partly concealed by a sou'wester, while a long oilskin coat and a pair of india-rubber boots completed the visible portion of his rig-out. "Hello, Sparks!" he exclaimed. "How goes it? Anything doing?" "Absolutely nothing," replied Mostyn. "Everything's as quiet as the proverbial lamb. I suppose----" He broke off suddenly. Anstey made some remark, but the Wireless Officer took not the slightest notice. Already he had snatched up a pencil and was scribbling upon the ever-ready pad. It was a TTT or urgent warning signal. Mostyn wrote it down mechanically without knowing its import, but the Third Officer, looking over Peter's shoulder, made a grimace as he deciphered the other's scrawl: "CQ de GNF--TTT--mine warning--S.S. two-step reports 1630 sighting two mines, lat. 53 deg. 20' 15", long. 1 deg. 5' 30" east stop mines just awash barnacle covered apparently connected by hawser--end of message." "By Jove!" exclaimed Anstey. "Just our luck. Right in our course, an' it's my blessed watch." CHAPTER VI A Night of Peril