"I believe I remember you," she said at length. "Weren't you on board a white yawl of about six tons, with a green boot-top and rather a high cabin top?"

"That was the _Spindrift_, my pater's yacht," declared Peter. "And----"

"And you were about ten or eleven, with a freckly face," pursued Miss Baird calmly. "You were a horrid little wretch in those days, because I distinctly remember you laughing at me when the halliard jammed and I couldn't get the sail either up or down."

"Guilty, Miss Baird," said Peter. "I apologize. Give me a chance to make amends and I'll be all over it."

"I will," agreed the girl. "You may take me for a sail in Bulonga Harbour; but you mustn't be selfish, like Mr. Preston and Mr. Anstey.

You will let me take the tiller, won't you?"

Peter gave the required promise. He felt highly pleased with himself.

Anstey was evidently in disfavour because he had underrated Olive's capabilities as a helmswoman. In addition, the Third Officer would be fairly busy while the _West Barbican_ was in harbour, as the steelwork had to be taken out of the hold. Reminiscences of youth spent in the West Country, too, were mutual and sympathetic bonds between the Wireless Officer and the girl. No wonder he was feeling highly elated.

"What sort of a place is Bulonga?" asked Olive.

"Haven't the faintest idea," replied Peter. "Never heard of the show until a day or two ago. Don't expect a second Durban, Miss Baird. If you do you'll be disappointed. I shouldn't be at all surprised if it's a pestilential mud-hole. By Jove, it's close on eight bells, and it's my watch."

Half an hour later Mostyn "took in" a message from Durban addressed to Miss Baird. It contained the brief announcement that Mr. and Mrs.

Gregory--Olive's relations to whom she was on her way--were returning to England in three days' time, and that Olive's pa.s.sage-money home was lying at the Company's offices at Durban.

CHAPTER XX

An Eventful River Trip

"What a one-eyed crib!" exclaimed Anstey, as the _West Barbican_ slowly approached the low-lying coast in the neighbourhood of Bulonga.

Mostyn nodded in concurrence.

The outlook was dreary in the extreme. All there was to be seen was a squalid collection of galvanized-iron huts rising above a low, sandy spit; a few gaunt palms; a line of surf--not milk-white, but coffee-coloured--and a background of sun-dried hills.

The whole coast seemed to have been scorched up by the sun. Brown and drab colours predominated. The foliage was of a sombre drab-green narrowly approaching a dull copper colour. Even the sea in the vicinity of the harbour had lost its usual clearness and appeared to be charged with a muddy sediment.

"Any sign of the pilot, Mr. Anstey?" inquired Captain Bullock.

The "S International", the signal for a pilot, had been flying from the topmast-head for the last hour, as the _West Barbican_ cautiously closed with the inhospitable-looking coast, but there were no signs of activity ash.o.r.e.

In ordinary circ.u.mstances it was customary for the ship to wireless her agents, asking them to make arrangements for a pilot; but, since there were no agents at Bulonga, nor even a wireless station, that procedure was put out of court. There remained only the old-time flag signal to summon a pilot from sh.o.r.e.

"No sign yet, sir," replied the officer of the watch. He had been scanning the sh.o.r.e through a telescope until his eyes smarted. The glare form those "tin" huts seemed to be reflected through the lenses of the telescope to his optic nerve. He was literally seeing red.

"All asleep, I suppose," commented the Old Man. "It beats me why we've been ordered to this rotten hole. Try 'em with the siren, Mr. Anstey."

The echoes of the powerful whistle had hardly died away when a hoist of bunting rose slowly in the humid air. Until a faint zephyr caught the flags it was impossible for the _West Barbican_ to understand the import of the signal.

"FWE," sang out Anstey. "That reports that there's not enough water on the bar, sir."

"Not enough fiddlesticks!" snapped the Old Man. "It's within half an hour of high water. We'll lose the flood if they don't get busy.

Besides, how the blazes do they know our draught? For two pins I'd take her in myself."

No doubt the skipper, with the aid of chart, compa.s.s, and lead-line, could have navigated the ship across the bar with complete success. He had worked his way into uncharted harbours before to-day. But should the vessel ground he would be in a very difficult position with the Board of Trade. Even if he were successful in getting the ship safely alongside the quay there might be trouble with the Portuguese officials for not complying with the port regulations.

"That chap who wrote something about those serving who only stand and wait didn't know much about the tides," fumed the Old Man. "Here's the blessed tide serving, but it won't stand and it won't wait, and time's precious."

Nevertheless the skipper had to wait, impatiently and irritably, until such times as the easy-going officials sent out a pilot.

It was more than an hour later before a white motor-boat with an awning fore and aft was seen approaching the ship.

As the boat drew nearer its ugliness became apparent. The paint was dirty, and in places rubbed away to the bare planking. The awning had seen better days, and had been roughly patched in a dozen places. A couple of coir fenders trailed drunkenly over the side, while the painter was dragging through the water. The motor was wheezing like a worn-out animal and emitting smoke from numerous leaky joints, while the clutch, slipping badly, was rasping like a rusty file.

A Zanzibari native was "tending" the engine, and a half-caste Portuguese was at the wheel. In the stern-sheets was a short and very stout man puffing at an enormous cigar. He wore a dirty white uniform with a lavish display of tarnished gilt braid, while set at an angle on his bushy hair was a peaked cap with the Mozambique arms.

"Goo' mornin', Senhor Capitano!" he exclaimed, when the boat ranged awkwardly alongside. "Me pilot. Get you in in shake o'

brace--no--brace o' shake."

Still puffing his cigar the Portuguese pilot came over the side and waddled on to the bridge.

"Vat you draw?" he inquired.

The Old Man gave him the ship's draught.

"Ver' mooch," rejoined the pilot, shrugging his shoulders. "Tide go.

Why you no call me before?"

But get her in he did, although the propeller was throwing up muddy sand and the keel plates were slithering over the bottom.

Half an hour later the _West Barbican_ was berthed alongside the quay--a dilapidated structure partly stone and partly timber, with rusty bollards that, judging by their appearance, had not made the acquaintance of mooring-ropes for months. Clearly the maritime activities of Bulonga were largely dormant.

Presently--there was no hurry, everything at Bulonga being done on the "do it to-morrow" principle--the Customs officers came on board.

They were bilious-looking rascals, whose broad hints for "palm-oil"

were as plain as the fellaheen demanding baksheesh. To them the task of searching for dutiable goods was of secondary importance.

From one of them, who spoke English pa.s.sably, Captain Bullock elicited the information that there was no British agent in the place; neither was there telegraphic, telephonic, nor railway communication with anywhere. Once a week a small steamer brought up outside the bar for the purpose of collecting and delivering mails and parcels. When the weather was rough, or the bar impa.s.sable, the inhabitants of Bulonga had to wait another week, perhaps two, for news of the outside world.

"We'll have to hand over the steelwork to some one, Preston," observed the Old Man. "We can't dump it on the quay and leave it to rot. Nip ash.o.r.e and see if there's a fairly reliable storekeeper who will freeze on to the stuff till it's wanted. We'll need a covered store at least a hundred and twenty feet in length."

The Acting Chief returned on board with the information that there was a suitable place, and only one. The owner, a timber exporter and importer, had gone home, and no one knew when he was likely to return.

He lived at a place called Duelha, about seven or eight miles up the river that empties itself into the shallow Bulonga Harbour, and he was in the habit of journeying to and fro by means of a motor-boat.

"We'll have to rout him out," decided Captain Bullock. "I'll send my motor-boat. Meanwhile we'll engage natives and start getting the stuff out of the hold. The question is: who am I going to send away with the boat? You'll be on duty on deck, Preston, and Anstey will be tallying in the hold. I've got it. I'll get young Mostyn to go."

He went to the end of the bridge and looked down. On the promenade-deck were Peter and Olive watching the dreary harbour.