The floor of the cabin had quite an acute list by this time. It was only by propping his legs against the lee bulkhead that Mostyn could keep seated. He realized perfectly well that the ship was sinking rapidly, but it is part of an unwritten code of honour that a wireless officer "stands by" until he is ordered away by his skipper or swept from his post by the sea itself. Even as he waited, still sending out the unacknowledged SOS, he thought of Olive Baird, wondering how she was faring in the horrors of the night. If he only knew--but perhaps for his peace of mind it was as well that he did not. Above the turmoil without came the report of two pistol shots in quick succession. There was no mistaking the sharp cracks. They differed completely from the detonations of the distress rockets that at intervals were fired from the bridge, on the chance that a vessel in the vicinity might proceed to the aid of the foundering ship. The pistol shots reminded Peter of something that he might otherwise have overlooked. Without removing the telephones from his ears he groped and found his automatic and a box of cartridges. "No knowing when it might come in useful," he soliloquized, as he thrust the weapon into his hip pocket. "While I'm about it I might as well get dressed." With considerable difficulty, owing to the now terrific list of the ship, he contrived to throw off his oilskin and don his white patrol suit over his pyjamas. Then, putting on his oilskin once more, he waited. He had not much longer to wait. "Any luck?" inquired the Old Man, who was gripping the doorway of the wireless-cabin with both hands in order to prevent himself slipping bodily to lee'ard. "No, sir," replied Mostyn. "Then chuck it," continued the skipper. "Look nippy. She's nearly gone. Where's your life-belt?" A slight recovery on the part of the stricken _West Barbican_ enabled Peter and the skipper to gain the weather bridge rail, the former securing a lifebelt from the chest by the side of the chartroom. It was a weird and terrible sight that met Mostyn's eyes as he clung to the rail. The vivid flashes of lightning threw the scene into strong relief as the bluish glare illumined the night. Not only was the ship listing to port. She was well down by the stern, her poop being practically submerged. From the lee side of the boat-deck a row of empty davits overhung the black water, the lower blocks of the disengaged falls flogging the ship's side like a series of blows with a sledge-hammer.