"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 insignificance when olive baird appeared. one and all the players flocked to the side to watch her departure in the old man's motor-boat.

from the top of the accommodation ladder peter signed to the native engineer, and by the time olive stepped agilely into the stern-sheets, without taking advantage of mostyn's proffered hand, the motor was purring gently.

"let go aft—let go for'ard!" ordered peter. "touch ahead."

by a gentle movement of the wheel mostyn got the boat clear of the ship's side without the risk of hitting the propeller. he knew from experience that the effect of helm is to swing a boat's stern round and not her bows. then, with a sign to the native engineer to "let her all out", peter steadied the boat on her course.

the old man's private launch was no sluggard. she could do a good nine knots, but her progress against the formidable ebb seemed tediously slow. she was slipping through the coffee-coloured water quickly enough, as her bow-wave and clear wake denoted; but she seemed to be crawling past the low river banks at less than a slow walking pace.

peter did not mind. he had no idea of wasting time in the execution of his orders, but, on the other hand, the relatively slow progress did not worry him. he was perfectly happy. olive, too, was obviously enjoying the run. the breeze set up by the motion of the boat through the still air was delightfully cooling after the enervating atmosphere on board the west barbican alongside the wharf.

"like to take her?" asked peter, when a bend of the river hid them from the ship.

"rather," replied miss baird promptly, and, nimbly negotiating the bulkhead between the stern-sheets and the steering-well, she mounted the low, grating-fitted platform and grasped the wheel.

mostyn, who had relinquished the helm, stood just behind and a little to the side, so that he could command a view ahead. occasionally he had to consult the chart in order to avoid the numerous sand-banks.

"look out for those floating logs, miss baird," he cautioned, as three or four huge tree trunks, green with trailing weed, rolled lazily over and over in their aimless passage to the open sea.

olive avoided them easily. peter's confidence in the helmswoman increased by leaps and bounds. there was no hesitation on her part, no bungling as the swift, frail craft passed between two of the logs with less than six feet to spare on either side.

"give that log a wide berth, miss baird," observed her companion, after a number of obstructions had been avoided. "unless i'm much mistaken we'll find that log has a motor of sorts. yes, by jove! it has!"

the "log" was an enormous hippopotamus, floating motionless on the water, with only its snout and a small portion of its back showing above the surface.

at this point the river had contracted considerably, the actual waterway being less than twenty yards from bank to bank, although at half tide these banks were submerged and the width of the stream increased to nearly a quarter of a mile.

olive meant to give the brute as wide a berth as possible, while, on the other hand, the hippo resolved on close quarters with the motor-boat.

instead of diving to the muddy bottom of the river the hippopotamus began to swim rapidly towards the launch, opening its huge jaws with evident relish at the prospect of biting out a few square feet of gunwale and topside as an entree.

mostyn and the native coxswain, who had hitherto been "standing easy", were keenly on the alert. the latter, seizing an oar, made ready to deal a blow upon the brute's head, although the hippo would have paid no more attention to the blow than he would to being tickled with a straw.

olive showed no sign of nervousness. in fact, she acted so coolly and with such excellent judgment that peter made no attempt to grasp the wheel.

seeing the animal approach, the girl edged the boat well over to the port side of the narrow channel. in spite of the speed of the launch it was apparent that the hippo would cut it off if the same direction were maintained.

not until the boat's stem was within twenty yards of the brute did olive alter helm. then, with a quick, even movement, she put the helm hard-a-port.

before the unwieldy animal could turn, the launch had literally scraped the hippo's submerged hindquarters. then, swinging the boat back on her former course, the girl glanced at her companion.

"near thing, that," she remarked. "i wonder that would have happened if we'd hit it?"

"we would have come off worst," replied peter, who, now the danger was over, was beginning to realize what the consequences might have been.

"perhaps you wouldn't mind taking on," said olive a little later.

mostyn took the helm. although the girl had given no reason for wanting to relinquish the wheel, he felt pretty certain that the incident had shaken her up a bit.

"you're all right?" he asked.

"quite," was the reply.

presently the river widened considerably. the launch was now within half a mile of her destination, but, according to the chart, there was a submerged bank on the starboard hand, and fairly deep water close to the right bank.

without warning the impetus of the launch was arrested. peter was flung against the wheel; olive, losing her balance, cannoned into him, and was saved from a violent concussion against the coaming by the fact that the native coxswain had got there first, and had been winded by his impact with the woodwork. the engineer, who had crawled under the fore-deck to replenish the contents of a grease-cup, was flung along the narrow floor by the motor and finished up by butting the petrol tank.

"aground!" exclaimed mostyn, stating what was an obvious and accomplished fact.

the engine was racing furiously. jerking the reverse lever into the astern position peter hoped that the action of the powerful propeller would release the launch from her predicament. it was in vain. the motor was racing as fast as ever, but there was no flow of water past the boat's side to indicate that the propeller was going astern.

"blades stripped, by jove!" ejaculated 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 circumstances olive would say otherwise.

by this time the native coxswain 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 passing 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 tête-à-tête 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.