Publisher's Synopsis
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Peter Mostyn. "Now, this does look like business." "It does, Mr. Mostyn," agreed the postmistress. "It seems as if we are to lose you again." "And about time too," added the youth, as he ripped open the long, buff-coloured envelope bearing the words "Broughborough International Marine Telegraph Company." Peter Mostyn had been "on the beach" for nearly six months. In other words, he was out of a berth. Not that it was any fault of his that a promising and energetic young wireless officer should be without a ship for such a protracted period. An unprecedented slump in British shipping-when hundreds of vessels flying the Red Ensign were laid up, while the bulk of the world's trade was carried by the mercantile fleet of Germany-had resulted, amongst other ills, in the wholesale "sacking" of officers and men, who to a great extent had been the means of warding off the grim spectre of starvation during those black years of the World War. Five times a week for over four months Peter Mostyn had ridden into Trentham Regis village in the hope of securing the long-expected missive giving him an appointment to another ship.
