"My kit is all in here."

Crawshay laid his hand upon the operator's shoulder in peremptory
fashion.

"Then you will have to do without it for the present," he replied
coolly. "Outside."

The young man turned on his heel and disappeared without a word.
Crawshay glanced once more at the dismantled instrument, then followed
Robins on to the deck, carefully locking the door behind him. A grey,
stormy morning was just breaking, with piles of angry clouds creeping
up, and showers of spray breaking over the ship on the weather side.
He chose a sheltered spot and stood for a few moments breathing in the
strong salt air. Notwithstanding his success, he was unaccountably
depressed. As far as he could see across the grey waste of waters,
there was no sign of any passing ship, but the eastern horizon was
blurred by a low-hanging bank of sinister-looking clouds. Suddenly a
voice rang out, hailing him. It was the captain descending from
the bridge.

"Come and have a cup of coffee with me in my room, Mr. Crawshay," he
invited.

Crawshay felt himself suddenly back again in the world of real
happenings. His depression passed as though by magic. After all, he
had won the first trick, and the next move was already forming up in
his mind.