During the rest of the day the picking up of dropped threads was a continual source of astonishment to Peter Mostyn, although it was not the first time that he had been cut off from the outside world.
The dhow was berthed alongside the newly constructed wharf, fronting the modest building which housed the customs and port officials of Pangawani. The two lascars were sent to a native merchant seamen's compound, until they could be shipped back to Bombay in accordance with the terms of their engagement. Mahmed, greatly against his wish, was transferred to a native hospital, on the promise given by Mostyn Sahib that he would be allowed to accompany his master as soon as he was able to do so. Mrs. Shallop, declining offers of hospitality from the wife of a Customs officer, betook herself to a small hotel close to the railway station from which the line, broken only at the as yet unspanned Kilembonga Gorge, starts on its eight-hundred-mile run to the provisional capital of the Kilba Protectorate.
Olive Baird, on the other hand, gratefully accepted Davis's offer to stay with his wife until an opportunity occurred for her to take passage home—the opportunity being determined by Peter's ability to accompany her, and thus carry out his promise.
Dick Preston sturdily declined to go into hospital. Already he had arranged to share rooms with Peter at the Pangawani branch of the Imperial Mercantile Marine Club of which both officers were members.
Before Peter relinquished his command, certain formalities had to be gone through, amongst which was the examination of the vessel by the port officials.
The dhow's cargo was small and comparatively worthless. There were no papers to prove her identity or of where she came.
"What's in that chest, Mr. Mostyn?" inquired the official, pointing to the box containing the money, the lid of which Peter had nailed up. "Coin, eh? All right, we won't open it yet. I'll wait till we get it ashore, but I'll put a seal on it for our mutual safeguard.'"
In fact he affixed three seals bearing the impression of the arms of the Protectorate of Kilba.
"One more thing," continued the port official. "You'll have to make a declaration before the Head Commissioner. I'll come along with you. We may catch him before dinner."
"Not in these trousers," objected Mostyn, indicating his disreputable garments. "And I must go to the post office."
"Right-o," agreed the official cheerfully. "Nothing like killing three birds with one stone. You and I are about the same build. Let me fit you up. Comyn is my tally."
In a very short time obvious deficiencies in Peter's wardrobe were made good. Then, accompanied by his newly found friend and benefactor, he called in at the post office and dispatched a cablegram to his parents.
The message was characteristic of Mostyn. He did not believe in paying for two words when one would do, especially at the rates charged by the cable company. It was simply: "O.K. Peter".
Having discharged this act of filial duty, Mostyn suffered himself to be led into the presence of the Head Commissioner of the Kilba Protectorate, who happened to be on official duty at Pangawani.
With the Commissioner was the Director of Contracts. Both were under thirty-five years of age—Britons of the forceful and energetic type to which colonial development owes so much.
They were sitting at a large teak table littered with papers and documents. The Director of Contracts was reading a typed cablegram.
"Infernal cheek, Carr," he exclaimed to his colleague. "We've no use for cheap German stuff in the Protectorate. We'll turn it down."
The subject of his righteous wrath was a tender from the Pfieldorf Company offering to supply steelwork "exactly according to the plans and specifications of a contract that has unfortunately failed to be executed", delivering the material at Pangawani within thirty-six days of receipt of telegraphic order, for the sum of £55,000.
"Good!" ejaculated the Commissioner. "Tick the blighters off while you are about it. I'd rather see the Kilembonga Gorge unbridged till the crack of doom than have the place disfigured—yes, dishonoured, if you like—by a Hun-made structure. It was a bad stroke of luck when the Brocklington people's stuff went to the bottom of the sea."
The walls and doors of the official buildings were far from soundproof. Peter, standing with Comyn outside the door, heard the words distinctly. To him they conveyed only one explanation: that in transport from Bulonga to Pangawani the vessel chartered for the conveyance of the steelwork had met with disaster.
Comyn tapped at the door and was bidden to enter.
"I've brought Mr. Mostyn to report to you, sir," he explained. "Mr. Mostyn was in charge of the dhow that landed seven survivors of theWest Barbicanthis morning."
"We've just been talking of theWest Barbican, Mr. Mostyn," said the Commissioner. "We were saying how unfortunate it was that an important consignment for us was lost in the ship. By the by, are you any relation of Captain Mostyn, one of the managing directors of the Brocklington Ironworks Company?"
"He's my father, sir," replied Peter. "I'm afraid, though, that I fail to understand your reference to the loss of the steelwork."
"Hang it, man," interposed the Director of Contracts, "surely you ought to know. You were on the ship when she went down."
"And I know it," agreed Peter grimly. "That she went down, I mean. As for the steelwork, that was landed at Bulonga a day or so before the disaster occurred."
"What?" demanded the Commissioner and Director of Contracts in one breath.
Peter repeated his assertion.
"Glorious news!" exclaimed the Commissioner. "Bless my soul, what possessed them to dump the stuff in a miserable backwater in Portuguese territory?"
"That's for you to say, sir," replied Mostyn. "I took in the wireless message when we were a few hours out from Durban. It came from the Company's agent, and obviously must have emanated from here."
"Obviously fiddlesticks!" interrupted the Director of Contracts. "If it had I would have been responsible for it. Fire away, let's have the whole yarn."
For the best part of an hour Mostyn kept his listeners deeply engrossed. The Commissioner completely forgot that there was a meal waiting for him. Here was an enthralling narrative with an unsolved mystery attached.
"Have you any available funds, Mr. Mostyn," he demanded bluntly, when Peter had brought his story to a close.
"Precious little, sir."
"Then let me make an offer. If you accept you will be rendering a public service and doing your father's firm a thundering good turn. You are in no immediate hurry, I take it, to be sent home?"
Peter thought not.
"Good," continued the Commissioner. "In that case you can act as representative to the Brocklington Ironworks Company, and deliver the goods before the contract date. You've a good sixteen days clear. I'll give you a credit note for a thousand pounds, and you can make your arrangements for chartering a vessel to bring the consignment round from Bulonga. As a matter of fact there's theQuilbomalying in harbour at the present time, waiting for cargo. She'd do admirably, and you can get quite reasonable terms. Once the jolly old stuff is planked down on the wharf here your father's firm has carried out its obligation, you know."
It did not take long for Peter to accept the offer. He metaphorically jumped at it.
"Right-o," said the Commissioner, as he dismissed his newly accredited agent of the Brocklington Ironworks Company. "Get a move on. Over you go and the best of luck."
Still feeling considerably mystified, Mostyn left the building. Outside he parted with Comyn, the latter impressing on him that he would be only too pleased to be of assistance to him in any matter and at any time during his stay at Pangawani.
Peter went to the post office a second time. Again he cabled to his father, but with a reckless disregard of the money he was putting into the cable company's exchequer. He did not even wait to put the message into code, but stated that the consignment of steel-work had not been lost in theWest Barbican, but had been landed at Bulonga. He proposed chartering a tramp and bringing the consignment to Pangawani.
"That'll buck the governor up, I reckon," he soliloquized, as he handed in the cablegram.
His next move was to interview the master of the S.S.Quilboma, who, as luck would have it, was also part owner, and being badly in want of a cargo agreed to undertake the run to Bulonga and back at a very reasonable figure.
"When can you get under way?" inquired Peter.
"Tide time to-morrow night," was the reply. "Say about six o'clock."
Peter's peregrinations that day were by no means finished. After being held up and interviewed by the local representative of theKilba Protectorate Gazette, who was also a correspondent to one of the principal London dailies, he found out Olive and told her of his latest plans.
"It won't take much more than a week—perhaps less," he explained. "I don't think that in any case you will be able to find a homeward-bound vessel by that time."
"I won't trouble to do so," declared the girl. "Mr. Davis and his wife are no end of good sorts."
Preston received the news of Peter's venture with considerable envy.
"Wish I were fit enough," he remarked; "I'd come along and help you through with it. Keep your eyes open, old man, and see if you can find out anything about theWest Barbican. It seems to me that somebody in Bulonga might be able to throw out a good hint as to the cause of the explosion. I may be wrong, but those are my sentiments. When do you sail?"
Peter told him.
"That's unfortunate, my lad," rejoined the Acting Chief. "These people here are giving us a lush-up to-morrow evening. Couldn't wait, I suppose?"
Mostyn shook his head.
"Tide time," he replied briefly.
"Any time between six and nine," added Preston. "Ask the Old Man—he's not your boss, you're employing him—to put it off say till a quarter to nine. Then you'll be able to have most of the fun; Miss Baird and Mrs. Shallop will be there, of course, although I guess neither of us is particularly keen on the old woman's presence."
"She turned up trumps when she tackled the Arab," Peter reminded him.
"All right, get on with it," interposed Preston good-humouredly. "It will be an ordeal for me, watching you fellows enjoying yourselves, an' the doctor's shoved me on to a light diet. He didn't want to let me go, but I'll be there, even if it snows ink."
So back to the harbour Mostyn went to interview the skipper of theQuilbomaonce more.
"'Tain't for me to raise objections," declared the captain, "but it's cutting it mighty fine. Fallin' tide's at nine, d'ye see?"
He tilted back his topee and scratched his head.
"Tell you what," he continued. "I'll take her over the bar at seven o'clock and drop killick outside, if 'tis as calm as it is to-day. Mr. Davis's launch can put you off, and then we'll get under way directly you come aboard. Make it four bells, if you like. There won't be much time lost, seeing as I haven't to smell my way out on a falling tide."
The Old Man's assertion that there would be but little time lost finally dispelled Peter's misgivings. He would have foregone the doubtful pleasure of the lush-up ashore rather than have risked the chance of still further delaying the delivery of the Brocklington Ironworks Company's contract; but now, with these reassurances, Mostyn felt that he could accept the hospitality of the new-found friends without any pinpricks of conscience.
Punctually at the time stated Peter presented himself at the club. Already the Head Commissioner and the port officials were there to welcome their guests.
A little later a rickshaw trundled up to the entrance, and Preston put in an appearance, assisted by a couple of the club servants.
Then, in Peter's eyes at least, a radiant vision arrived, as Olive Baird, simply yet daintily dressed in one of Mrs. Davis's evening frocks, and escorted by her host and hostess, was ushered into the ante-room.
Her introduction to the Head Commissioner took a very considerable time—at least Peter thought so—while others of the Pangawani community flocked up to the girl like flies round a honey-pot.
At length the Head Commissioner suggested that it was time to adjourn to the dining-room.
"We're all here, I take it?" he inquired.
"Mrs. Shallop hasn't arrived yet," replied one of his colleagues, who, although deputed beforehand to take the lady into dinner, was in total ignorance of what she was like or of her rather outstanding mannerisms. "We sent a rickshaw to her hotel an hour ago, sir."
Before the Commissioner could make any remark upon the lady's absence a native servant approached, salaamed, and offered a silver plate upon which was a pencilled note.
"Excuse me a moment," said the Commissioner to his guests.
He pulled aside the bamboo chik that separated the ante-room from the foyer. As he strode out Peter noticed that there was a tall man in a drill uniform standing in front of a couple of native policemen.
Mostyn was not in the least curious. He was aware that the leisure time of a highly-placed official is hardly ever free from interruptions upon matters of state. But he was considerably surprised when a couple of minutes later the Head Commissioner pulled aside the curtain and said:
"Mr. Mostyn, may I speak to you for a few moments?"
Peter went out. The uniformed officer and the two policemen were standing stiffly at attention.
The Commissioner without any preamble plunged into facts.
"This is Inspector Williams of the Kilba Protectorate Police Force," he announced. "He holds a warrant for the arrest of Mrs. Shallop, or, to give her—or, rather, him—his correct name, Benjamin Skeets. He is very badly wanted at home for extensive frauds on the United Trusts Banking Company. His partner in crime, Joseph Shales, whom probably you know under the name of Mr. Shallop, is already in the hands of the Union of South Africa Police. I suppose this is news to you?"
"It is, sir," replied the astonished Mostyn.
"You had no suspicion of the true sex of Mrs. Shallop?"
"None whatever."
"Had he any money when he came ashore?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir."
"Well, the fact remains," rejoined the Head Commissioner drily, "that Mr. Benjamin Skeets has given us the slip; although, we hope, we may possibly lay hands on him before long. He can't get very far away. All right, Williams, carry on. Keep me informed directly you hear anything of a definite nature. Come along, Mostyn; we'll rejoin the others. Not a word about this till after dinner."
There was no doubt about it: Mr. Benjamin Skeets was a very crafty fellow. By adopting the disguise of a woman, and acting up to the part of a vulgar parvenue, he had completely covered his tracks, and had thrown dust into the eyes of everyone with whom he had come in contact—up to a certain point and then only with one exception.
Messrs. Skeets and Shale were no mere novices in crime, and their daringcoupof defrauding the United Trusts Banking Company of the round sum of £30,000, and their subsequent disappearance, had both mystified and astonished the British public by its audacity, and had completely baffled the greatest detective experts of Scotland Yard.
Skeets had lived up to his disguise very thoroughly. Even the subsequent engagement of Miss Olive Baird had been undertaken solely with the idea of elaborating the smaller but by no means unnecessary details of his disguise. Since there was no reliable description of Mr. Joseph Shales, who was the unseen partner in the deal with the banking firm, it was a fairly simple matter for him to get out of the country under the guise of the husband of "Mrs. Shallop".
It had been the intention of the precious pair to leave theWest Barbicanat Cape Town; hence Mrs. Shallop's anxiety to get a wireless message through as soon as the ship came within radio range of Table Bay. But the absence of a reply from Skeets's confederate at Cape Town had so startled the fugitives that they decided to go on until they found a convenient port, preferably in India, where they could lie low and live on their ill-gotten plunder.
The foundering of theWest Barbicanhad upset their calculations. Practically the whole of the pair's booty went down with the ship. Mr. Shallop, otherwise Shales, having no further use for his destitute partner, went off in one of the ship's boats which was eventually picked up. Arriving at Cape Town he took the ill-advised step of looking-up a pal. The latter was already languishing in a South African penal establishment, and Mr. Shales, upon making inquiries, was enlightened by an acquaintance of the convict, who chanced to be an astute detective.
The outcome of this meeting was that Mr. Shallop, under the mellow influence of strong waters, said more than he would have done had he been in his sober senses. Recovering from his maudlin state he found himself in custody.
Having no belief in the worn proverb concerning honour amongst thieves, and perhaps fully convinced that his partner in crime had been lost in the disaster to theWest Barbican, Joseph Shales confessed to a minor part in the United Trusts Bank frauds, at the same time laying the blame upon the missing Benjamin Skeets.
The immediate result was that directly the news was cabled that more survivors from theWest Barbican, including Mrs. Shallop, had been landed at Pangawani, the Kilba Protectorate Police were instructed to arrest the much-wanted Benjamin.
Before Mostyn left to go on board theQuilbomahe had an opportunity of saying farewell to Olive, and at the same time telling her of the astounding news.
"And to think that she—or, rather, he—bluffed the whole jolly lot of us," he added. "Even the Old Man and Doctor Selwyn were taken in completely."
"Not all of us, Peter," rejoined the girl softly. "I knew—but not at first."
"By Jove!" ejaculated the astonished Mostyn. "You did? When did you?"
"Not until theWest Barbicanwas sinking," replied Olive. "I found it out then: I couldn't help it. Of course, I didn't know exactly what to do, and I knew nothing whatever of the crime she—I mean, he—had committed. But I meant to tell you some day, Peter."
"We are well rid of him," remarked Mostyn.
"Yes," agreed the girl thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, she added frankly. "But if it had not been for Mrs. Shallop I might never have met you, Peter."
Mostyn departed radiantly upon the voyage on which depended the fate of the Brocklington Ironworks Company's contract.
It was not until the day following that Davis, in his official capacity, completed the inspection of the dhow. When he came to knock off the lid of the box in which Mostyn had nailed up the gold and silver coins, he found that, although the seals were intact, the money had vanished.
Davis gave a low whistle.
"That stuff's been lifted before the dhow put into Pangawani," he declared to his assistant. "The seals being intact proves that."
His companion laughed.
"After sneaking £30,000 friend Skeets wouldn't scruple to lift that little lot," he remarked.
"S'pose so," conceded Davis. "We'll go and report the loss; but I'm afraid that Mrs. Shallop has got well away with it this time."
Which was exactly what had happened. As far as the authorities at Pangawani were concerned Benjamin Skeets had vanished, seemingly into thin air. Although the daily train from Pangawani up-country had been rigorously searched at every intermediate station, soon after the flight of the much wanted man was made known, no one unable to give a good account of himself or herself had been discovered. With the exception of theQuilbomano vessel had left the port during the previous twenty-four hours. Native police and trackers had scoured the bush for miles in the vicinity of Pangawani without picking up any traces of the fugitive.
*****
Meanwhile Peter Mostyn was speeding south on board the S.S.Quilboma. From the moment the harbour launch had placed him on the deck of the tramp outside Pangawani bar, he was entirely cut off from news of the rest of the world. TheQuilbomawas not fitted with wireless, her owners, since the relaxation of Board of Trade regulations on the termination of the war, having dispensed with what they considered to be an unprofitable, expensive, and unnecessary outfit.
The tramp was only of 1500 tons gross register, and with a speed of nine knots. Her engines were of an antiquated, reciprocating type, while her coal consumption was out of all proportion to her carrying capacity. Had she been plying in home waters she would never have passed the official re-survey; consequently her owners, one of whom was her skipper, took good care to confine theQuilboma'sactivities to the Red Sea and Indian Ocean.
In fine weather, and aided by the current constantly setting southward through the Mozambique Channel, theQuilbomawas actually making between eleven and a half and twelve knots "over the ground". Three days after leaving Pangawani she arrived at the entrance to Bulonga Harbour.
Six hours elapsed before she was berthed alongside the rotting wharf, to dry-out in a bed of noxious mud as the tide left her.
Mostyn got to work promptly, and with his accustomed enthusiasm. He had the good luck to find the Portuguese agent on the spot. The preposterous storage charges were discussed, haggled over, and settled; gangs of native workmen were hired, and the task of loading up theQuilbomawith her bulky but precious cargo began.
It was now that Peter met with a sudden and unexpected check, for, on inspecting the metalwork, he found that even in a comparatively short time the moist, tropical atmosphere had attacked the steel in spite of the coating of oxide it had received before leaving England.
To deliver it in this state meant a possible, nay, probable rejection by the consignees; but fortunately the skipper of theQuilbomarose to the occasion.
"I've a couple o' kegs of oxide aboard," he announced. "Put the niggers on to it, and let 'em give the stuff another coat."
"Over the rust?" queried the conscientious Peter,
The Old Man winked solemnly.
"Who's to know?" he asked. "Paint's like charity: covers a multitude of defects."
"That won't do for me," declared Peter. "I'll have every bit of the scale chipped off before the least flick of paint is put on."
The skipper shrugged his shoulders but refrained from audible comment. Although in his mind he considered his charterer to be a silly young owl, especially as he was bound to a time limit, he had to confess that Mostyn was doing the right thing.
It took the native workmen two days of unremitting toil (Peter and the Portuguese agent took care that it was unremitting) to clean the steelwork and recoat it with oxide. Then the loading commenced.
With the perspiration pouring down his face, Mostyn supervised the removal of the ponderous girders from the enclosure, the Chief Mate being responsible for the storage of the material in the hold.
Presently the Old Man, puffing like a grampus, hurried up to Mostyn.
"Those four long bits won't stow," he announced. "Our main hold ain't long enough, not by five feet."
"Will they stow on deck?" asked Mostyn.
"And capsize the old hooker in the first bit o' dirty weather we run into?" rejoined the skipper caustically. "You don't catch me doing that, my dear sir. We'll have to leave 'em behind, and theThyliedcan pick 'em up. She's about due to leave Port Elizabeth, and ought to be here in a week's time."
"Look here, Skipper," said Peter firmly. "You contracted to bring this consignment from Bulonga to Pangawani. I gave you the dimensions of the longest girders before we came to terms, and you declared to me that you could stow the whole of the consignment. And you'll have to do it."
"It ain't a matter of life an' death," expostulated the Old Man. "I'll make a liberal abatement in the freightage charges and—
"You won't," declared Mostyn firmly. "You won't, because you've got to ship every bit of that steelwork; so get busy."
The skipper of theQuilbomawas one of those easy-going, obliging sort of fellows who can rarely make up their minds and act unless dominated by a person of strong, individual character. He was inclined to let things drift, and would assuredly choose the line of least resistance regardless of the consequences. As a navigator he was passable; as a seaman he lacked the alertness and decision necessary to shine at his profession. For years he had been in command of theQuilboma, and not once in that time had he found himself in a really tight corner. It was luck—pure luck—which might at a very inopportune moment let him down very badly.
"What do you suggest then?" he growled.
"I suggested deck cargo," replied Peter. "You turned it down. I don't question your authority or your wisdom on that point. The rest is up to you."
"A' right," rejoined the Old Man. "You just hang on here and keep these niggers up to scratch. I'll fix it up somehow."
And "fix it up somehow" he did; for when at sundown Mostyn returned to the ship he found that the long, heavy girderswerestowed. The Old Man had had the bulkhead between the main hold and the boiler-room cut through—it did not require much labour, so worn and rusty were the steel plates of that bulkhead—with the result that one end of each of the troublesome girders was within six inches of the for'ard boiler.
At length the loading-up was completed. Steam was raised in the wheezy boilers; the Portuguese customs officials were "suitably rewarded", and clearance papers obtained; and at four in the afternoon theQuilbomacrossed the bar of Bulonga Harbour, starboarded helm, and shaped a course for Pangawani.
Head winds and an adverse current made a vast difference to the speed of the old tramp. She had taken but three days to run south; five days still found her plugging ahead with Pangawani a good fifty miles off.
TheQuilbomawas now making bad weather of it. Her foredeck was constantly under water, as she pitched and wallowed against the head seas. The glass was falling rapidly. Unless the ship made harbour before the threatened storm broke, it would be impossible to cross the bar until the weather moderated.
The Old Man began to look anxious.
At midday Peter was with the skipper on the bridge when the Chief Engineer approached the Old Man.
"Coal's running low," he reported without any preliminaries.
"How long can you carry on for, Mr. Jackson?" inquired the captain.
"For five hours; less maybe," was the reply. "She's simply mopping up coal on this run. Goodness knows why, 'cause I haven't been pressing her overmuch."
The Old Man nodded. He quite understood. To run the antiquated engines at anything approaching full speed ahead might easily result in the patched-up boilers refusing duty altogether.
"Five hours'll about do," he declared. "Keep her at it, Mr. Jackson."
The Chief Engineer departed. He was not so sure that he could "keep her at it". Under normal conditions the coal taken on board at Pangawani ought to have been more than enough for the round trip. Unaccountably the consumption was much above the average, with the awkward result that the bunkers were nearly empty.
"Pangawani ain't Barry Roads," remarked the Old Man to his charterer. "There isn't a tug at Pangawani; but I'd bet my bottom dollar that, if we were this distance from Cardiff, there'd be a round dozen o' tugs buzzing round an' clamouring to give us a pluck in. No, laddie, we'll have to do it on our own, and we'll jolly well do it, too!"
"Evidently the Old Man's got a 'do or die' spasm," thought Peter, bearing in mind his previous experience with the weak-willed master of the S.S.Quilboma. "Let's hope it will last."
By four in the afternoon the Old Man sang to a different tune. TheQuilbomawas now within ten miles of Pangawani; but so low was the pressure in her steam-gauges that she was making a bare five knots.
"I'll signal the first old hooker we fall in with and get her to give us a tow," he decided.
"Not much chance of sighting a vessel off Pangawani, is there?" asked Mostyn.
"You never know your luck," quoted the Old Man sententiously, as he stared apprehensively at the storm clouds banking up to wind'ard.
A few minutes later the skipper of the S.S.Quilbomaunderwent another change of character.
He blew the whistle of the engine-room voice-tube.
"How goes it, Jackson? Last shovelful out of the bunker? How are you off for oil? Yes, any sort. Fair amount—good. Well, stand by: I'll fix you up."
The threatening storm had completely roused the Old Man to definite, practical action. He surpassed himself, and, incidentally, surprised himself and others into the bargain.
Shouting to some of the hands he ordered them to bring axes and to smash up one of the quarter-boats.
"Don't stand there lookin' into the air," he bawled angrily. "Lay aft and do what you're told. I know what I'm doin'. Carve up that blank boat and pass the dunnage down to the stokehold, and be mighty slick about it."
The men, realizing the object of what had previously seemed to be a wanton act of destruction, set to work with a will. In a very few minutes the quarter-davits on the port side were looking very gaunt and forlorn, while a good five hundredweights of wood soaked in crude oil helped to feed the ravenous furnaces.
Half an hour later another boat shared the fate of the first, while, in addition, the crew collected various inflammable gear and passed it below, where sweating firemen threw the impromptu fuel into the furnaces. Bales of cotton waste soaked in oil were added to leaven the whole lump, until theQuilboma'sstumpy, salt-rimed funnel threw out volumes of smoke that spread for miles astern like a grimy, evil-smelling pall.
TheQuilbomawas now within sight of her goal. Broad on the port bow could be discerned the long, low beach fringed with a quavering line of milk-white foam and backed by the waving coco-palms and the picturesque bungalows of Kilba's principal port.
"How long will that little lot last you, Mr. Jackson?" inquired the Old Man per voice-tube. "Forty minutes? Ay, I'll see to that."
He pointed to one of the lifeboats. The deck-hands, grasping the significance of this display of dumb-show, threw themselves upon the boat. Axes gleamed and fell with a succession of mingled thuds and crashes. Planks, timbers, knees, breast-hooks, thwarts, masts, and oars—all went below to the still insatiable maw of the devouring element.
The skipper of theQuilbomamade no attempt to signal for a pilot. For one reason, he knew the dangerous entrance intimately; for another, it was doubtful whether the pilot could come out and board the vessel. Yet another: the ship could not afford to wait, with her steam pressure falling and the storm perilously close.
"Starboard—meet her—at that—steady!"
The skipper, standing beside the two quartermasters at the helm, was about to take his sorely tried craft over the dangerous bar. It required pluck, but there was no option if she were to make port at all. It had to be now or never, for, if theQuilbomafailed to make the bar, she would either be dashed to pieces on the reef or drift helplessly at the mercy of the gale.
With the wind now broad on the starboard beam the old tramp rolled horribly. Peter, hanging on to the bridge-rail, fancied that every piece of steelwork in the hold had broken adrift. Groaning, thudding, quivering, swept by sheets of blinding spray, theQuilbomastaggered towards the danger-zone. At one moment her propeller was almost clear of the water; at the next the labouring engines seemed to be pulled up, as the madly racing blades sank deep beneath the surface of the broiling sea.
Now she was in the thick of it. Tossed about like a cork, wallowing like a barrel, the old tramp was almost unmanageable. One of the quartermasters was juggling with the wheel of the steam steering-gear like a man possessed, as he strove to keep the old hooker on her course. To port and starboard the ugly reef was showing its teeth, as the remorseless breakers crashed and receded with a continual roar of thunder.
Suddenly a thud, different from the rest of the hideous noises, shook the ship from stem to stern. For a moment—to Peter the pause seemed interminable—she seemed to hang up. Then, with a sickening, sideways lurch she dragged over the hard sand into the comparatively deep and sheltered waters beyond.
"Done it, by Jove!" exclaimed the Old Man, as he rang down for half-speed ahead. "We're in."
But he was trembling like a person in a fit.
Twenty minutes later the S.S.Quilbomaberthed alongside the quay. The order to draw fires was a superfluous one. The furnaces had burned themselves out.
It was too late to commence unloading that day. Peter, having notified the authorities of the arrival of the consignment, and having arranged for the Government surveyor to inspect the steelwork on the following afternoon, made his way to the Davis's bungalow.
So far all was well. The time-limit fixed for the delivery of the Brocklington Ironworks Company's contract was still forty-eight hours off, and there was no apparent reason why the stipulated conditions should not be complied with.
Olive greeted him warmly. Mr. and Mrs. Davis made him welcome with typical overseas sincerity, and he spent a most enjoyable evening.
At daybreak gangs of natives were set to work to clear theQuilboma'shold. By noon the bulk of the steelwork lay upon the quayside. At four in the afternoon the material was examined, tested, and passed by the representative of the Kilba Protectorate Government, and an hour later Peter sent another cablegram to his father:
"Contract completed O.K. Official confirmation follows."
This pleasurable duty performed, Mostyn went to pay Mahmed a visit. He found his boy progressing favourably, his many wounds having healed without any sign of complications.
"We'll soon be able to send you back to India, Mahmed," said Peter.
"Me no want go India, sahib," protested Mahmed. "Me stay all one-time with you. Me good cook, me wash-brush sahib's clothes. Me do eb'rything."
"But I'm going back to England," announced his master. "There I don't know what will happen. I may not get another ship for a very long time."
"No matter," rejoined Mahmed, with sublime optimism. "Me stay with sahib. Me makecharfor sahib."
Peter left it at that. He little knew that Mahmed spoke with the tongue of prophecy.
Later on in the evening the Head Commissioner sent for him.
"Are you in a pressing hurry to get home, Mr. Mostyn?" he inquired, after congratulating him upon the successful voyage and happy termination of his trip on the S.S.Quilboma.
Peter thought not. Providing that he was not detained to give evidence in the Skeets case, he was in no immediate hurry. Apart from the pleasure of meeting his parents again, he was not particularly keen upon returning to England.
He was well aware of the state of affairs in the wireless service at home; how hundreds of skilled operators were "on the beach" through no fault of their own, and that the prospect of immediate re-engagement was very remote. Wireless officers were just now much in the same position as Tommy Atkins. While there was a war on, and wireless men were in great demand for sea-service, the various shipping companies were almost falling over each other and themselves in their efforts to secure skilled operators. Now that the war is ancient history, and sea risks are falling to pre-1914 level, the services of wireless officers are no longer in great demand. The slump in shipping has dealt a severe blow to radio-telegraphists.
"Quite so," agreed the Head Commissioner, when Mostyn had stated his views. "As a matter of fact we are developing wireless communication in the Protectorate as we find it far cheaper than and quite as efficient as ordinary telegraphy. Setting up telegraph posts for elephants and rhinos to butt into is an expensive game. So I sent for you. I can offer you a really good Government appointment, with free quarters, and splendid prospects of rapid promotion. You're just the type of fellow I want; so what do you say?"
Peter did not reply. He was thinking deeply, struggling with a very complex proposition.
"And six months leave in England on full pay every two years, with free passage out and back," added the Head Commissioner, as an extra inducement—a bait that had often beforetimes turned the scale.
"Thanks awfully, sir," said Peter, "but I'd like to have some time to think things over."
"Certainly," agreed the official, but at the same time he felt rather disappointed. He had been fully prepared to find that Mostyn would jump at the tempting offer. According to what he had heard, Mostyn was a man of action. It rather puzzled him that the Wireless Officer should hesitate to close with the offer of a rattling good post. "Take a day to think things over and then let me know."
As soon as the interview was at an end Peter hurried round to consult his older and, perhaps, more experienced chum Preston.
He found the Acting Chief sitting in a deck-chair under the veranda of the club-house. Preston, like Mahmed, was making a rapid recovery, and already he was able to walk for a few yards with the aid of a stick.
"You silly young blighter!" he exclaimed, when Peter told him of his interview with the Head Commissioner. "Why on earth didn't you jump at it? The pay they're offering you is equal to a cool £800 a year at home, to say nothing of extras chucked in. By Jove! If it had been me—— I suppose there aren't any more plums knocking around for a has-been shellback of forty like me?"
"I didn't jump at it, old man," replied Peter slowly. "I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"On Miss Baird's account," explained Mostyn. "You know I promised to see her safely back to England, and I simply couldn't go back on my word."
Preston grunted.
"Is she so very keen on going?" he demanded. "From what I've heard and seen I don't think she is. Look here, Mostyn, old son. I'm going to be the Grand Inquisitor for once, being almost old enough to be your father. Are you fond of the girl?"
"Yes," replied Peter without hesitation. He was sure onthatpoint.
"And is she fond of you?" continued the Grand Inquisitor.
"Think so," was the non-committal reply. "Not so sure about it, though," he added.
"I think I am," rejoined Preston, with a dry chuckle. "I've been keeping my eye upon the pair of you for some considerable time back. Look here, old son; you're a decent sort of fellow with a clean run an' all that. That's what counts with a girl, after all's said and done. You've been offered a rattling good berth with nothing of the 'blind alley' touch about it. All you want now is a sheet-anchor—a jolly sensible girl as a life-partner; one with whom you're not likely to part brass-rags in less than a twelvemonth. Bit of a mixed metaphor, isn't it; but you know what I mean? That girl is Miss Baird; so don't stand hanging on to the slack. Ask her to be your wife."
Peter said nothing. He was very agreeably surprised to hear the hitherto matter-of-fact Acting Chief launching out upon such a subject.
"For goodness sake don't think that I'm starting a matrimonial agency stunt, old thing," continued Preston. "I know many a young fellow who's run aground on the rocks 'cause he's been a fool to get spliced without looking ahead. You're different. There, I've had my say. Full speed ahead and you'll win. And good luck to you."
Thanking his old chum, Mostyn went off feeling considerably elated. Preston's views completely coincided with his own, and the Acting Chief's words of encouragement helped to fill up the gap in Peter's resolution.
The ordeal in front of him was a trying one, he expected; far more stupendous and momentous than he had ever experienced. His adventures while on the books of the S.S.Donibristleand the S.S.West Barbicanwere light by comparison.
"No use putting things off," he decided; and, acting upon this resolution, he presented himself at the Davis's bungalow.
Not the shadow of a chance did he have to broach the momentous subject to Olive. Davis and his wife were so hospitable that they never left Peter and Olive alone for one moment.
At eleven, with his mind still unburdened, Mostyn returned to his quarters.
At dawn, after a restless night, he arose, bathed, shaved, and dressed, and went out.
He was by no means the only early riser. The white population of Pangawani make a point of getting exercise before the heat of the tropical day. Watching from afar Peter saw signs of activity at the Davis's bungalow. Native grooms were leading three ponies round to the front of the veranda.
Five minutes later Peter strolled, outwardly unconcerned, past the house, just as Olive and her host and hostess were coming out.
"Hello, old man!" exclaimed Davis. "Topping morning, isn't it? We're off for a canter through the orange groves. Come along."
"Yes, do," added the two ladies.
"Delighted," replied Peter.
Davis shouted to a native groom to saddle another pony.
Mostyn eyed the mount with a certain degree of misgiving. He would have been perfectly at home in the saddle of a motor-bicycle at anything up to fifty miles an hour. There the control was entirely in his own hands. A pony, he reflected, isn't a machine; it is an animal possessing brains and possibly an obstinate will. If the brute took it into his head to exceed ten miles an hour Peter wouldn't guarantee to keep his seat. He didn't profess to be a horseman, but in the circumstances he simply had to risk it and take his chance.
His horsemanship was far better than he had expected it to be, although Olive gave him points on the management of a pony. It was an exhilarating canter along the stretch of broad, white sands, followed by a steady climb to the summit of Mohollo Head.
"Pull up for a minute, Olive," suggested Peter. "My pony is a bit winded, I think. Let's admire the view."
Quite naturally the girl fell in with the suggestion. Davis and his wife were still riding on ahead.
It was an ideal morning. The sun was still low in the eastern sky. A fresh breeze stirred the broad leaves of the coco-palms. The foam lashed itself upon the distant reef, while within the rocky barrier the water was as calm as a mill-pond.
"Isn't this topping!" exclaimed Peter, with a comprehensive sweep of his arm.
"Delightful," agreed Olive. "I shall be very sorry to have to say good-bye to Pangawani."
The girl's whole-hearted admiration gave Mostyn the looked-for opening. With sailor-like alertness he seized the opportunity.
"Then why leave Pangawani?" he asked.
Olive looked at him wonderingly.
"What do you mean, Peter?" she asked. "When do you think you will be going home?"
"In two years time, I hope," he replied. "But that depends upon you."
"Upon me?" rejoined the girl, a faint colour stealing across her half-averted face, as she suddenly realized the point of her companion's remarks.
"Well, you see," explained Mostyn, "I've been offered a Government post out here—a jolly good one. I couldn't accept it because I hadn't spoken to you about it. We agreed, I think, that I should be your guardian—'guardian' is a rotten term, isn't it?—until I saw you safely home."
"Don't, please, let that stand in your way," said Olive.
"It will," declared Peter, "unless——"
*****
Five minutes or so later Davis exclaimed to his wife: "Hello! Where are the others?"
"I don't know," was the reply. "I quite thought they were following. Trot back and see; I'll wait here."
Another five minutes and Davis rejoined his wife. Deliberately he dismounted, charged a pipe, and lit it.
"There's no hurry," he reported. "They're quite all right. I saw from a distance that I wasde trop, so I beat a strategic retreat."
Davis finished his pipe, filled up and lit another.
At length the sound of the now walking ponies' hoofs upon the soft ground announced the arrival of the laggards. Then into the glade rode Peter and Olive, both looking radiantly happy.
"Congratulate me, old man!" said Peter excitedly He did not need to explain.
Davis rammed his still-burning pipe into his pocket—he had good cause to remember it later—and extended a sun-burnt hand.
"You lucky dog!" he exclaimed.