"Blades stripped, by Jove!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mostyn.

He switched off the ignition, and, in the relative quietude that succeeded the machine-gun-like explosions of the exhaust, took stock of the situation.

"Quite all right, thank you," replied the girl, in answer to Peter's question. The reply set Mostyn wondering whether in any circ.u.mstances Olive would say otherwise.

By this time the native c.o.xswain was sitting up. Although he was not taking nourishment he was gently caressing the bruised part of his anatomy, but otherwise betraying no interest in things.

Then the engineer appeared, backing out of the motor-room, and mopping the blood on his forehead with a silk scarf. Gaining the steering-well he drew himself up and salaamed.

"Why sahib stop engine?" he inquired.

"'Cause the propeller blades are gone," replied Mostyn. "Savvy?

Blades--screw--no can do. Like this."

He tried to convey the magnitude of the disaster by means of dumb show.

The native failed to understand. Being aground mattered little to him; being slung about like a pea in a box he took more or less as a matter of course. The thing--the thing that counted--was the fact that the sahib had taken unto himself the duty of Abdullah Bux, engineer of the Sahib Captain's launch, and had stopped the motor. Abdullah Bux felt that on that account he had a grievance.

The launch was lying well down by the head in about a couple of inches of water. Her stem had struck a waterlogged tree trunk almost buried in the soft mud. The impact had lifted her bows well clear of the water, the greater portion of the keel pa.s.sing over the obstruction until, the bows dropping and plunging into the mud, the boat came to a standstill. Then it was that the swiftly moving propeller had fouled the log, with the result that the three blades were shorn off close to the boss.

"Tide still ebbing," remarked Peter. "We're properly on it, Miss Baird."

"Yes, unfortunately," was the rejoinder. "There's no way of getting her off till the tide makes?"

"Might try kedging her off," suggested Mostyn.

"A kedge wouldn't hold in this slime," declared the practical Miss Baird, "even if you were able to lay it out. But you can't. The mud's too soft."

Peter sounded with an oar. The blade sank almost without resistance to a depth of three feet in the noxious slime.

A tedious wait followed. There was no denying the fact that it was tedious. Peter and the girl sat under the after canopy, but a _tete-a-tete_ under these conditions was very different from one on the promenade-deck of the _West Barbican_ on a tranquil, starlit night. It was hot--insufferably so. Not only did the sun pour fiercely down upon the double awning. The mud, now "dry", was radiating heat--a clammy, evil-smelling heat, as the rotting vegetation left high and dry by the receding tide lay sweltering in the sunshine. The heavy, motionless air, for there was not the faintest suspicion of a breeze, reeked as only the air of an African swamp can--an overpowering, nauseating stench. Thrown in as a makeweight came the reek of hot oil from the badly overheated engine.

"Tide's turning," said Peter, breaking the long silence.

There was no lull in the change from ebb to flood. At one moment the brownish waters were foaming seawards; at the next a miniature "bore"

was breaking over the fringe of the mud-flats, bringing with it a collection of flotsam in the form of branches and trunks of trees.

"'Fraid I'm giving you a rotten time," continued Peter apologetically.

"Sailing with Preston and Anstey in Durban must have been a joy compared with this--and you told me you didn't like it a bit. You must think I'm a rotten pilot."

"Nearly everyone gets aground some time or other," replied Olive. "The awkward part is that this isn't exactly like the mud-banks of the Tamar. And it's unfortunate about the propeller. What do you propose to do when we float?"

"Row up to Duelha. It's less than half a mile. If we can't get a spare propeller we might ask Senhor Aguilla to tow us back in his motor-boat."

The flood-tide made with great rapidity. In less than half an hour the launch was afloat. The two lascars manned the oars, and the boat, borne rapidly by the tide, quickly covered the remainder of the way to Duelha.

The Portuguese agent was overwhelmingly polite. He insisted on entertaining Olive and Peter to coffee, and promised to tow the disabled launch back to the ship, at the same time regretting that there were no facilities at Duelha for repairs.

"Eet is no trouvel, senhor," declared the Portuguese. "I myself vill speak to el capitano Bullock concerning de stores from de sheep. Eet is pleasair to do business vid de Englees all de time."

It was sunset before Olive and Peter returned to the S.S. _West Barbican_.

CHAPTER XXI

The End of S.S. "_West Barbican_"

Throughout the day the scantily clothed Bantu workmen had been busily engaged in unloading the steelwork. The natives, unlike their Portuguese masters, had to keep hard at it, with the result that by the time "knock-off" was announced and the Bantus, resuming their calico skirt-like garments, had trooped ash.o.r.e, the S.S. _West Barbican_ drew five feet less for'ard than when she crossed the bar. Captain Bullock's interview with Senhor Jose Aguilla was of a mutually satisfactory nature. The latter undertook to store and look after the consignment of the Kilba Protectorate until such time as it was claimed by the authorities. The terms were so many thousand milreis per month, a sum that on paper looked truly formidable, but actually was equal to about seven pounds of English money.

The Old Man was pleased to get the steelwork off his hands so reasonably. Senhor Aguilla was pleased because he had the steelwork on his hands. That was the difference.

The Portuguese knew that the longer the consignment remained unclaimed the longer he would continue to draw a fairly substantial sum for wharf.a.ge and storage; and, although he promised to forward a letter to the Kilba Protectorate agent at Pangawani by the next weekly steamer, he meant to take steps to prevent, for as long as he possibly could, the information concerning the steelwork reaching the proper quarter.

Having, as he thought, satisfactorily settled with Senhor Aguilla Captain Bullock sent for his Wireless Officer.

"That means a ticking off, I expect," thought Peter, when Mahmed delivered the message. "The Old Man's rattled about his motor-launch."

Mostyn was only partly right in his surmise. Captain Bullock was annoyed, which was natural enough. No boat-owner likes to have his craft damaged, especially when he is not on board. He has a sort of feeling that the accident, whatever it might be, would not have occurred had he been present. It was an awkward mishap. Until the _West Barbican_ returned to Durban, or some other large port, it would be hopeless to expect to obtain a new propeller.

But the skipper, in spite of his bluntness, was a just man. He dealt with cases impartially, and no one having been censured by him had good reason to doubt his judgment.

Peter went to the skipper's cabin and reported the circ.u.mstances of the accident. The Old Man listened attentively until the Wireless Officer had finished his narrative; then he pointed to a chart of Bulonga Harbour that was lying on the desk.

"Show me where the stranding occurred, Mr. Mostyn. What, there? On the port-hand side of the channel?"

"Yes, sir."

Captain Bullock had no cause to doubt Peter's word, but he made up his mind to question the two lascars who were in the boat, and also to see if Miss Baird could throw any light upon the matter.

"H'm. I suppose the river has changed its bed," he remarked. "African rivers have a nasty habit of doing that. It was unfortunate that you struck a snag; otherwise it wouldn't have mattered very much. All right, carry on."

Abdullah Bux and his compatriot could give no definite information.

Miss Baird, for the present, was not available. The strident tones of Mrs. Shallop indicated pretty clearly that the lady was bullying the girl for her prolonged and involuntary absence.

At sunrise next morning the _West Barbican_, drawing considerably less water than she had done eighteen hours previously, recrossed the bar.

The Portuguese pilot was dropped, and a course steered to pa.s.s through the broad Mozambique Channel. Without exception all on board were glad to get away from the malodorous harbour of Bulonga.

On the afternoon of the seventh day after leaving Durban the weather "came on dirty". A heavy wind from the east'ard raised a nasty sea, which would have been angry but for the torrential downpour of rain that had the effect of beating down the crested waves.

As darkness set in the sky was almost one continuous blaze of vivid sheet lightning. The rain was still heavy but the wind piped down, blowing softly from the nor'-east.

"We haven't seen the last of this yet," declared Preston. "The gla.s.s is a bit jumpy. It'll blow like billy-ho before morning. How about your aerial, Sparks? Aren't you going to disconnect it?"

The two officers, clad in oilskins and precious little else, were keeping the first watch. There was nothing doing in the wireless-cabin. Atmospherics were present, but, apart from these disturbances, no sound had been audible in the telephones during the best part of Peter's watch. Insufferably hot, he had put on an oilskin and had gone out for a breather.

"No need," he replied. "At least not until we get forked lightning."

"I'm not sorry we've got shot of that steelwork," remarked the Acting Chief after a pause. "It's awkward stuff to carry. But the trouble of it is that removing it has altered our deviation. The compa.s.s cannot possibly be the same with that enormous amount of metal taken out of the ship. I suggested to the Old Man that we ought to have swung the old hooker before we left Bulonga and adjusted compa.s.ses. But he was in a hurry to get under way, and, apart from that, the harbour was so shallow that we couldn't get a clear swing. She's not far out on this bearing. I took a sight at the Southern Cross for that. Talking of compa.s.ses: did you hear that yarn about the Flinder's bar?"