"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 ashore.

In ordinary circumstances 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 shore.

"No sign yet, sir," replied the officer of the watch. He had been scanning the shore 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, compass, 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 passably, 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 impassable, 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 ashore 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.

Miss Baird had taken her great disappointment remarkably well. On the principle that there is no time like the present, she refused to dwell upon the prospects of returning home. She would have to, she supposed, in due course; meanwhile she was on board the West Barbican without any immediate chance of returning even as far as Durban. And the longer the voyage the better, she decided.

"This doesn\'t look promising for our sail, Miss Baird," said Peter. "The tide\'s ebbing like a millrace. Look at those trunks of trees coming down. They\'d give a small boat a nasty biff if they fouled her."

"And no wind," added the girl. "Mr. Preston was telling me that in the harbours on this coast it blows from the land from sunset till about ten o\'clock, and from the sea from a little after sunrise till ten in the morning. Between times it\'s usually a flat calm."

The harbour viewed from within looked far more uninviting than it did from the offing. The ebb was in full swing—a turgid, evil-smelling rush of coffee-coloured water. Already the mud-banks fringing the mangrove-covered islands were uncovering and throwing out a noxious mist under the powerful rays of the tropical sun, which was now almost immediately overhead.

Mostyn found himself comparing Bulonga Harbour most unfavourably with the lovely lagoons and coral reefs of the Pacific islands.

"It may be better later on in the afternoon," he remarked. "Say an hour before high water. If——"

He broke off abruptly, for Captain Bullock was descending the bridge-ladder.

"Hello, young lady!" exclaimed the skipper. "What do you say to a run in my launch? I\'m sending her up-stream in a few minutes. You\'ll be snug enough under the double canopy over the stern-sheets."

"It ought to be rather exciting, Captain Bullock," replied Olive, glancing at the surging ebb. "It would be very nice to see what it\'s like."

"Right-o!" rejoined the skipper. "Mr. Mostyn, will you take charge of the boat? You seem the best man for the job, considering that it\'s your father\'s steelwork we are dealing with. Take this letter to a Senhor José Aguilla, who hangs out at a place called Duelha. I\'ll show you it on a chart. Get him to come down as soon as possible. If he\'s like the rest of these gentry that will be ma?ana. In any case, bring back a written reply to this letter."

"Very good, sir."

"Carry on, then. Pass the word for the serang to have the motor-boat hoisted out and the awnings and side-curtains spread. Miss Baird, can you be ready in a quarter of an hour?"

Mostyn hurried away to carry out his instructions.

"Good sort, the Old Man," he soliloquized. "And at one time I thought I\'d hate him like poison. It just shows a fellow that it\'s not wise to judge by first impressions."

Promptly the serang and half a dozen lascars came upon the scene and began to cast off the lashings that secured the motor-boat to No. 2 hatch. The little craft was Captain Bullock\'s private property. She was about twenty-five feet in length, carvel-built of teak, and had a 12-horse-power paraffin engine installed under the fore-deck. \'Midships was a well, fitted with a wheel and motor controls, while the spacious cockpit aft was provided with a folding hood, as well as double awnings spread between tall brass stanchions.

In less than ten minutes the boat had been swung out by means of a derrick, and was straining at her painter alongside the accommodation ladder.

With Senhor Aguilla\'s letter in the breast-pocket of his drill tunic and his automatic in his hip-pocket, Mostyn waited at the head of the ladder until Olive appeared, wearing a light, linen skirt and coat and a topee with a gold-edged pugaree.

It was "stand easy". Notwithstanding the tremendous heat the officers were spending their leisure in a manner followed by Britons all the world over. They were playing cricket, with the netted promenade-deck as the field, and stumps precariously supported by a small wooden base. Yet the thrill of deck-cricket paled into in............