The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
mile run to Colombo. It was the first night out on the last stage that Jim and I were sitting talking with the skipper on the bridge. Being a privileged person, Jim was allowed there and the skipper's private whisky was a better commodity than that sold below. Occasionally the sharp, hissing crackle of the wireless installation broke the silence, and we could see the operator in his shirt-sleeves through the open door of his cabin.
"I guess it's hard to begin to estimate what we sailor men owe to Marconi for that invention," said Kelly thoughtfully. "Now that we've got it, it seems almost incredible to think how we got along without it. And what can I do for you, sir?"
An abrupt change in his tone made me look round to see the Reverend Samuel Longfellow standing diffidently behind us. He evidently felt he was trespassing, for his voice was almost apologetic.
"Is it possible, Captain," he asked, "to send a message by your wireless?"
"Of course it is," answered Kelly. "You can hand in any message you like to the operator, and he'll send it for you."
"You see, I've never sent a message by wireless before," said the parson mildly, "and I wasn't quite sure what to do. Can you get an answer quickly?"
"Depends whom you are sending it to and where he is."
"He's on a yacht somewhere in this neighbourhood," answered the clergyman. "He is a missionary like myself whose health has broken down, and a kind philanthropist is taking him for a cruise to help him recover. I felt it would be so nice if I could speak to him, so to say, and hear from him, perhaps, how he is getting on."
"Quite," agreed the skipper gravely. "Well, Mr. Longfellow, there is nothing to prevent your speaking to him as much as you like. You just hand in your message to the operator whenever you want to, and he'll send down the answer to you as soon as he receives it."
"Oh, thank you, Captain Kelly," said the parson gratefully. "I suppose there's no way of saying where I am?" he continued hesitatingly. "I mean, on shore when one sends a wire the person who gets it can look up where you are on the map, and it makes it so much more interesting for him."
The skipper knocked out his pipe.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Longfellow," he remarked at length in a stifled voice, "that you can't quite do that at sea. Of course, the position of the ship will be given on the message in terms of latitude and longitude. So if your friend goes to the navigating officer of his yacht, he'll be able to show him with a pin exactly where you were in the Indian Ocean when the message was sent."
"I see," said the clergyman. "How interesting! And then, if I tell him that we are moving straight towards Colombo at twelve knots an hour, my dear friend will be able to follow me in spirit all the way on the map?"
The skipper choked slightly.
"Precisely, Mr. Longfellow. But I wouldn't call it twelve knots an hour if I were you. Just say, twelve knots."
The Reverend Samuel looked a little bewildered.
"Twelve knots. I see. Thank you so much. I'm afraid I don't know much about the sea. May I—may I go now to the gentleman who sends the messages?"
"By all manner of means," said Kelly, and Jim's shoulders shook. "Give the operator your message, and you shall have the answer as soon as it arrives."
Again murmuring his thanks, the missionary departed, and shortly afterwards we saw him in earnest converse with the wireless operator. And that worthy, having read the message and scratched his head, stared a little dazedly at the Reverend Samuel Longfellow, obviously feeling some doubts as to his sanity. To be asked to dispatch to the world at large a message beginning "Dear brother," and finishing "Yours in the Church," struck him as being one of those things which a self-respecting wireless operator should not be asked to do.
* * * * *
"Poor little bird!" said the skipper thoughtfully, as the missionary went aft to join his companions. "I'm glad for his sake that he doesn't know what the bulk of our cargo is this trip. He wouldn't be able to sleep at nights for fear of being made to walk the plank by pirates."
Jim looked up lazily.
"Why, what have you got on board, old man?" The skipper lowered his voice.
"I haven't shouted about it, Jim, and as a matter of fact, I don't think the crew know. Don't pass it on, but we've got over half a million in gold below, to say nothing of a consignment of pearls worth certainly another quarter."
Jim whistled. "By Jove! it would be a nice haul for someone. Bit out of your line, isn't it, James, carrying specie?"
"Yes, it is," agreed the other. "It generally goes on the bigger boats, but there was some hitch this time. It's just as safe with me as it is with them. That has made it safe." He pointed to the wireless operator busily sending out the message from 'Yours in the Church.' "That has made piracy a thing of the past. And, incidentally, as you can imagine, Jim, it's a big feather in my cap getting away with this consignment. It's going to make the trip worth six ordinary ones to the firm, and—er—to me. And, with any luck, if things go all right, as, humanly speaking, they will do, I have hopes that in the future it will no longer be out of our line. We might get a share of that traffic, and I'll be able to buy that chicken farm in Dorsetshire earlier than I thought."
Jim laughed. "You old humbug, James! You'll never give up the sea."
The skipper sighed and stretched himself.
"Maybe not, lad; maybe not. Not till she gives me up, anyway. But chickens are nice companionable birds, they tell me, and Dorset is England."
We stopped on talking for a few minutes longer, when a sudden and frenzied explosion of mirth came from the wireless operator. I had noticed him taking down a message, which he was now reading over to himself, and after a moment or two of unrestrained joy, he came out on deck.
"What is it, Jenkins?" said the skipper.
"Message for the parson, sir," answered the operator. "There is a duplicate on the table."
He saluted, and went aft to find the Reverend Samuel.
"I think," murmured the skipper, with a twinkling in his eye, "that I will now inspect the wireless installation. Would you care to come with me?"
And this is what we, most reprehensibly, read:
"DEAR BROTHER how lovely the gentleman who guides our ship tells me we pass quite close about midday the day after tomorrow will lean over railings and wave pocket-handkerchief.—FERDINAND."
"My sainted aunt!" spluttered the skipper. "Lean over railings and wave pocket-handkerchief!"
"I think I prefer the gentleman who guides our ship," said Jim gravely. "Anyway, James, I shall borrow your telescope as we come abreast of Ferdinand. I'd just hate to miss him.' Good night,' old man. I don't think anyone could blame you if you had that message framed."
* * * * *
It was about half an hour later that the door of my cabin opened and Jim entered abruptly. I was lying in my bunk smoking a final cigarette, and I looked at him in mild surprise. He was fully dressed, though I had seen him start to take off his clothes twenty minutes before, and he was looking grave.
"You pay attention, Dick," he said quietly, sitting down on the other bunk. "I'd just got my coat off when I remembered I'd left my cigar-case in a niche up on deck. I went up to get it, and as I was putting it in my pocket I heard my own name mentioned. Somewhat naturally I stopped and listened. And I distinctly heard this sentence: 'Don't forget—you are absolutely responsible for Maitland.' I listened, but I couldn't catch anything else except a few disconnected words here and there, such as 'wireless', 'midday', though I must have stood there for five minutes. Then there was a general pushing-back of deck-chairs, and those seven black-coated blighters trooped off to bed. They didn't see me; they were on the other side of the funnel—but it made me think. You remember that remark you heard as we came on board? Well, why the deuce is this bunch of parsons so infernally interested in me? I don't like it, Dick." He looked at me hard through his eyeglass. "Do you think they are parsons?"