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“That Lapwing business will have to stand over for at least a couple of months, Wroxall,” declared Mr. Findon, Senior Partner of the firm of Findon & Rayse, Marine Salvage Contractors. “The sand-dredger will have to be sent to that job at Scarborough, and now the Orisis operations have come to us I’ll have to keep Wyatt and Strong entirely upon that work.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Rob Wroxall promptly, although he felt the disappointment keenly. When on the eve of being dispatched as second-in-charge of an interesting salvage job in the Cameroons—it was to be his first experience abroad—it came as a bit of a shock to be told that the salvage of the Lapwing was “off” for two months. Probably before that time elapsed another home-waters task would fall to his lot. Of absorbing interest though they might be, these coast-wise operations did not appeal to Rob Wroxall’s imagination nearly as much as those in foreign parts and in tropical waters particularly.

Imagination? One might be tempted to ask what imagination had to do with the practical side of a Submarine Salvage Company’s assistant engineer. Actually it has a great bearing upon the case, since in many instances the object to be salved is invisible and sometimes directly unapproachable, and here imagination plays a large part in the salvor’s plans, provided his surmises are sound and capable of being put to profitable use.

Rob Wroxall was a young man in the early twenties—tall, broad-shouldered, sound in wind and limb, and in all other respects physically fit to meet the strenuous demands that salvage operations make upon human physique. He had just completed his term of apprenticeship with Messrs. Findon & Rayse, Ltd., and had showed such promise that he had been offered a post as assistant engineer in that firm.

Findon & Rayse, Ltd., of London, Dundee, and Falmouth, was not an old-established firm. It had come into being only since the Great War, but already its record of successes, together with a few “glorious” failures, had raised it to a position of repute in the marine salvage world.

Mr. Findon, the Senior Partner, was entirely a self-made man. He had commenced his career as a Greenwich School boy, leaving there to join the Royal Navy. Here he became a seaman-diver, petty officer, and then warrant officer. He came out of the Service with a pension, a war-bonus, a fairly substantial sum in respect of prize-money, and last but not least, a sound, practical knowledge of salvage work. Meeting with Mr. Rayse, who had been an Admiralty Civil Engineer, and who possessed considerable private means, he suggested the possibilities of salvage work so takingly that Mr. Rayse agreed to go into partnership with him.

They started operations in quite a small way, achieved several minor successes, invested the bulk of their gains in additional plant, and within seven years had turned their two-men concern into a limited liability company.

At the age of fifty-two Mr. Findon was still the active head of the firm, energetic as ever, and still prone to gamble on the chances of making a success out of a contract that most people would consider too dangerous to touch.

“You read the papers, I suppose?” continued Mr. Findon.

“Rather, sir,” replied Rob.

“Questions in the House?”

“Only the more important ones are reported in the paper I take. I read those.”

“H’m. D’ye remember a question raised by the Member for the Drake Division of Plymouth concerning complaints by Devonshire fishermen relating to damage done to their nets by some obstruction in Tor Bay?”

“That was six weeks ago,” observed Rob.

“Exactly—six weeks ago. Well, a naval party from Devonshire located the obstruction. It lies in twenty-three fathoms of water, three and three-tenths miles sou’east by east of Berry Head—magnetic bearing, that is. It’s something fairly big, but there are no records of any craft being ‘put down’ in that position during the War or of any wreck thereabouts since. The spot’s been buoyed, and now comes the job of lifting the wreck.”

“Seems a fairly tough proposition, sir,” remarked Wroxall. “Twenty-three fathoms, and, I should imagine, in the main Channel tidal stream. Why do they want it lifted? Blowing up the wreck with guncotton seems the easier way.”

“The easier way isn’t always the best way,” declared the Senior Partner. “If it were just a case of blowing up a submerged rock, for instance—as the Yanks did in New York Harbour—it would be the best way. But in this case it’s little use blowing up the hull of a sunken ship and leaving chunks of jagged metal on the sea-bed. The trawler-men would be no better off. Their nets would be fouled just the same. That’s why the Admiralty want that wreck raised. The Navy isn’t going to tackle the job. For one thing, it isn’t in their line, and Government work is too costly in comparison with results. So the Admiralty invited tenders. We put in for it at a cut price and got the job. One condition is that the firm whose tender is accepted retains all salved material, so it’s a toss up whether Findon & Rayse gain or lose over the transaction. We’re calculating on a dead weight in water of 1500 tons, working on the assumption that the wreck is about 200 feet in length. If it’s more we look like losing, unless the cargo is worth anything. Now the point is this: I’m sending you in sole charge of the job.”

Rob felt surprised—and looked it. He hardly expected at this early stage of his career to be given the responsibility of a task of this description.

“You can do it,” continued Mr. Findon. “If I weren’t sure you could I’m dashed if I’d risk chucking good money away. I’m sending the Gleaner and two lighters from Falmouth. Captain Condor will be under your orders, but—mark you, this is very important—he’s responsible for navigation and seamanship. If, for instance, he thinks that weather conditions are not favourable, you are to accept his decision and temporarily abandon operations. I’d back Captain Condor against all the weather experts of the Meteorological Office put together! So that’s that! You’d better go through these papers and then you’ll see where you are. And you know where to find the Admiralty charts. See me at four o’clock, and I’ll go over your suggestions.”

Gathering up the bulky docket, Rob went out of the Chief’s private office hardly able to realize his good fortune.

But was it good fortune? He hoped so. He had had a fair amount of experience, working under qualified instructors. He had been entrusted with minor operations in connexion with various salvage jobs. When a perplexing point had presented itself he had had others above him to apply to for advice and assistance. Now, apparently, the heavy mantle of responsibility rested almost entirely upon his youthful shoulders.

Going to his own room, which was as quiet as the rumble of London traffic permitted, Rob settled down to a steady perusal of the documents dealing with the unidentified wreckage off Berry Head. It was not long before he began to realize that it was a decidedly tough proposition.

The wreck lay, as Mr. Findon had said, in twenty-three fathoms—or nearly 140 feet. That, of course, was at low water, ordinary spring tides. At high tide that depth would be increased by from twelve to fifteen feet. According to the chart the bottom consisted of sand and mud, and there was a tidal current at the surface of from one and a half to two knots.

As he proceeded with his task the magnitude of it grew steadily. He tried to visualize the wreck—its shape, size, weight, and character unknown—lying perhaps three parts buried in mud and sand and swept by fierce submarine currents. The fishermen’s report of lost gear sounded ominous. Was there a diver courageous enough to descend 140 feet, to grope in the black muddy water with only the relatively feeble rays of an electric lamp to aid him; and to risk almost certain death by getting entangled in those meshes of lost nets; or to chance his life-line and air-tube getting foul of one or more of the many obstructions forming part of the wreck?

For the safety of the divers and their attendants, for the success or failure of the operations, he, Rob Wroxall, was to be held responsible. It was of little use pleading stress of weather, faulty gear, or recklessness on the part of the subordinates in mitigation of any failure on his part. The sole responsibility was his.

And yet the task was not of his seeking. He had been ordered by his employers to undertake it—pit his experience, his skill, and his reputation against various forces of nature; and the bone of contention was merely a wreck, in water too deep to form an obstruction or peril to navigation. Merely because it caused the loss of some hundreds of pounds’ worth of fishing-gear it had to be removed—even at the imminent risk of human life.

“It’s up to me to see the job through,” declared Rob practically. “Now, how do I go about it?”

For the next two hours he was kept busily employed in making calculations with reference to the gear required, studying local conditions according to information given on the chart, in conjunction with Admiralty tide-tables. Gradually from a mass of intricate data he evolved his plan of action, weighed the pros and cons, and finally put his report into writing.

Punctually at four he presented himself at his Chief’s private office, and submitted the results of his investigations.

“Take a chair,” invited Mr. Findon, and for the next half-hour not another word was spoken.

Seemingly oblivious of the young assistant engineer’s presence the Senior Partner scanned the neatly-written sheets. At intervals he would refer to some technical work or glance at a chart to verify various statements in Wroxall’s document. His rugged features appeared to be utterly emotionless. Neither by word nor sign did he give indication either of satisfaction or adverse criticism. Watching his employer Rob could learn nothing.

Suddenly Mr. Findon sat bolt upright in his revolving chair, folded the foolscap sheets and handed them to Rob.

“All O.K.,” he remarked tersely. “Couldn’t be better. Act upon it, and you won’t go far wrong. When can you start for Falmouth?”

“By the mail train from Paddington to-night, sir.”

“Excellent! Take these for incidental personal expenses. That’s all right. Well, good luck! I may run down and see how you’re getting on when you’ve started to lift the wreck!”