a violent slatting of canvas was the first comprehensible sound that greeted peter's ears as he began to recover his senses.
he opened his eyes and stared perplexedly at a light. it came from a familiar object—the boat's lamp. he could not understand why the sails were shaking, unless for some reason the boat had been allowed to run up into the wind, which was great carelessness on some one's part, he reflected.
yet, somehow, he wasn't in the west barbican's boat, but on the deck of something far more spacious.
he tried to sit up. the movement was a failure, resulting in a throbbing pain in the region of "adam's apple". remaining quiet for a few minutes he racked his bewildered brains to find a solution to the mystery.
he was lying on his left side, his head supported on a folded coat. his forehead was bound round with a wet cloth. why he knew not. it wasn't his head but his neck that was giving him pain.
and what was the boat's lantern doing there?
then he became aware of a hand touching him lightly on the forehead. he recoiled at the touch, and, turning his head, saw olive kneeling on the deck beside him.
"hello!" he exclaimed feebly. "where am i?"
"still on the dhow," replied the girl. "you—we—are all right now."
"are we?" rejoined peter, still mystified. "why is she run up into the wind? can you give me a drink of water?"
mostyn drank with difficulty. the liquid was refreshing to his parched tongue and lips, although it was a painful task to swallow. then he looked at the girl again.
her face was deathly pale, even in the yellow glare of the lantern. she was bareheaded, her hair, loosely plaited, falling over her shoulders. there were dark patches on the hem of her badly worn skirt.
then in a flash mostyn remembered everything up to the time when he had lost consciousness—the treacherous attack upon his sleeping companions, his double fight against the four arabs. where were they now?
he staggered to his feet, and would have fallen promptly had not olive held him up. carefully she piloted him to the coaming of the hatch.
although peter's bodily strength was slow of recovery his brain was rapidly regaining its normal functions. seated on the hatch, with the cool breeze fanning his face, he was able to take stock of his surroundings.
the dhow was not under control. her lateen foresail was aback. the masterless tiller was swaying to and fro as the vessel gathered stern way.
close to the mainmast were the disordered folds of the tent, on which lay the motionless forms of preston and mahmed. reclining against the short poop-ladder was mrs. shallop, her brawny arms bared to the elbow, and her black hair grotesquely awry. peter could have sworn that she was wearing a wig.
neither the two lascars nor the arabs were to be seen, but the disordered, blood-stained deck bore traces of the desperate fight, while lying close to the fife-rail of the foremast was mostyn's automatic.
"are they dead?" inquired the wireless officer, pointing to the bodies of the acting chief and mahmed. somehow he could not bring himself to mention them by name.
"mr. preston's got a knife-thrust in the shoulder," replied olive. "mahmed has half a dozen wounds, but he's still living. we dressed their injuries as well as we could—mrs. shallop and i."
"and where are the lascars?"
"locked in for'ard," announced the girl. "we thought we would let them stop there a bit until we sorted things out. the arabs? mrs. shallop attended to them. i helped a bit. she wanted to throw them overboard. we lowered them into the after hold—all five."
peter swallowed another draught of water. he suspected, not without reason, that he presented a pretty sight in the starlight. his shirt had been split across both shoulders, his right knee showed through a long rent in his trousers. his hair was matted with dried blood; his face was scratched and his neck swollen and purple-coloured. in addition, he was bespattered with the blood of at least one of his vanquished antagonists.
"we may as well release the lascars," he said "it's about time we got the dhow under control."
together olive and peter went for'ard and cut the lashings that secured the forepeak hatch. it was quite a considerable time before the lascars summoned up courage to appear, not knowing what had happened, although they had heard the struggle and guessed what was taking place. fortunately they guessed wrongly. they were not in the power of the ferocious arabs, and their relief was plain when they realized that mostyn sahib was still in command.
fortunately both men were acquainted with the management of a dhow. the foresail was filled and the helm put up, and once more the unwieldy craft was set upon her course.
there was little or nothing to be done for preston and mahmed. the former had recovered consciousness, having sustained a clean cut in the shoulder. it was peter's servant who had borne the brunt of the initial attack, the arabs, ignorant of his presence in the tent, having been under the impression that they were knifing his master.
already olive and mrs. shallop had washed their wounds and bandaged them with the cleanest linen obtainable, which happened to be the burnous of the arab captain.
"now you must sleep, peter," said the girl authoritatively, after mostyn had done his best for the dhow and her new crew. "you'll be fit for nothing to-morrow if you don't. no, i won't tell you anything more now. we'll be quite all right."
mostyn obeyed the mandate. apart from being utterly fatigued he rather liked being ordered about by the self-possessed and capable girl. in default of suitable bedding and covering, for the well-tried sail had been hacked almost to shreds, he stretched himself on a clear space of deck and was soon sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.
when peter awoke it was broad daylight. olive was not to be seen, but mrs. shallop had evidently been asserting herself—this time to good purpose; for, strange to relate, she was at the helm, while the lascars were engaged upon the finishing touches of "squaring up" the deck.
all traces of the encounter had been removed, and the planks had been scrubbed and washed down. preston and mahmed had been carried into one of the cabins under the poop-deck, where already the arabs' former quarters had been "swept and garnished".
seeing peter stir, mrs. shallop threw him a curt greeting, with the additional advice that if he went aft he would find something to eat.
mostyn took the hint. he was feeling peckish. as he stooped to clear the break of the poop he heard the woman shouting to the lascars to "get a move on, as i don't want to hang on here no longer than i can help"—a contradiction of terms which, however, had the desired effect upon those for whom it was intended.
in the aft cabin peter found olive presiding over a charcoal brazier and a brass coffee-pot, from which fragrant and almost forgotten odours were issuing. the dhow's larder had been raided, with the additional discovery of dates, dried goat's-flesh, bread, and several commodities of doubtful origin.
peter enjoyed the meal immensely in spite of his inflamed gullet. then, over a cigarette, he heard olive's account of her part in the desperate fight.
it appeared that the arabs failed through a lack of concentration in their initial attack. instead of four of them dealing with peter and preston (one of the crew had to be at the helm) two crept towards the tent in which the acting chief and mahmed were sleeping while a third secured the hatch over the lascars, and the fourth directed his attention upon the cabin in which mrs. shallop had taken up her abode.
awakened by the uproar, olive slipped out of her shelter, and hid in the angle made by the rise of the poop and the adjoining bulwark. the place was not only in shadow; it was hidden from the view of the arab at the helm.
horror-stricken, the girl watched the drama until she saw that peter had thrown himself upon the would-be assassins. up to that moment she had thought that he was struggling under the folds of the overthrown tent.
then horror gave place to a strange fascination as she followed mostyn's plucky and desperate struggle against the two arabs. she wanted to go to his aid, but her limbs refused the dictates of her brain, apart from the fact that she was without a weapon of any description.
as in a hideous dream she saw the wireless officer struggle until he had overcome his antagonists, only to be attacked by the captain of the dhow and the arab who had returned from his task of securing the lascars.
the period of trance-like inaction passed. olive stole stealthily towards the three combatants with the desperate intention of throwing herself upon the captain, as he manoeuvred for an opening. she saw the iron bar descend and peter's automatic slither along the deck. the arabs, too intent upon settling with the englishman, paid no attention to the little weapon.
swiftly the girl grasped the automatic. even in her haste she remembered to release the safety-catch and to see that there was a cartridge in the breech.
levelling the pistol she pressed the trigger. the arab captain threw up his arms and staggered upon the almost exhausted peter, bearing him to the deck together with the fellow whom he had used as a human shield.
still at a loss as to the outcome of the fight, olive waited, finger on trigger, watching the writhing forms almost at her feet. presently the arab sailor extricated himself and fumbled for the knife in his sash.
again the pistol cracked, and the fellow collapsed in a limp heap across the body of the captain of the dhow.
checking her almost irresistible inclination to ascertain whether peter was dead or alive, the girl made her way aft, remembering that there were five arabs and that only four had been accounted for.
a loud, very masculine-like voice, uttering a string of curses that would have done credit to a thames bargee, greeted olive's ears. as she stooped to clear the low poop she was just in time to see mrs. shallop deliver a clean and beautifully timed punch on the point of the arab's jaw. the luckless fellow, lifted completely off his feet, crashed heavily against the bulkhead and slithered limply upon the deck.
this much olive saw by the aid of a horn lantern hanging from the deck-beam. then, as mrs. shallop turned, the girl was also aware that there was a knife sticking into the woman's left shoulder.
olive offered her assistance. mrs. shallop, seemingly aware of the knife for the first time, waved her back.
"nothing to make a song about," she protested in a gruff voice. "when i want your help i'll ask for it—not before."
and with this ungracious refusal mrs. shallop went back into her cabin and shut the door; leaving olive, feeling considerably bewildered now that the reaction was setting in, standing close to the unconscious arab.
it was some moments before she pulled herself together sufficiently to go on deck. by this time the dhow had run up into the wind and was gathering sternway with her lateen foresail aback. olive hardly heeded the fact. her first care was to ascertain whether any of the three were still living.
peter looked a ghastly sight, a generous portion of his hair torn out by the roots and blood trickling down his forehead.
a hasty examination showed that he was still alive and apparently without serious injury. olive washed the stains from his face and rested his head on an improvised pillow. then she went to the assistance of preston and mahmed.
with difficulty she removed the collapsed tent, for in the mêlée the acting chief had rolled over upon the folds of the canvas. he too looked a pretty object, for the old wounds on his head had reopened, while in addition he had been stabbed. olive deftly dressed the injuries and turned to mahmed.
she did not know what to make of the indian boy. he was so chipped about that she was unaware whether he was alive or dead.
olive was still engaged in doing her best to patch mahmed up when mrs. shallop appeared upon the scene. somehow she had contrived to put a dressing over her wound, although it must have been a difficult task to tie the knot that held the bandage in position.
"bit of a mess, ain't it?" she remarked. "we'd best clean up a bit. how about heaving those blacks overboard?"
"are they all dead?" asked the girl.
"not a bit of it," was the unconcerned reply. "but they soon will be, so overboard with them."
"no," declared olive firmly. "it's not right—it's murder."
"it would have been murder for us if they hadn't knuckled under," rejoined mrs. shallop. "when they come to their senses there'll be more trouble, you mark my words."
olive glanced in the direction of the arab captain. already he was showing signs of returning consciousness.
"what's that hatch under the poop, close to your cabin?" she asked.
"how on earth should i know?" retorted mrs. shallop. "it's no odds to me what it is."
the girl went aft, lifted the hatch, and lowered the lantern into the cavernous depths. the place was an after-hold, its for'ard end terminating in a strong transverse bulkhead, while the curved timbers and raking sternpost comprised the remaining walls.
"we'll lower the arabs down that hatch," declared olive firmly, when she rejoined her companion. "they'll be safe enough in there."
"no; overboard with them," persisted mrs. shallop.
"you'll be tried for murder on the high seas if you do," continued olive.
the threat caused the woman's blood-thirsty schemes to evaporate.
"all right, then," she conceded grudgingly.
with very little assistance mrs. shallop dragged the unresisting forms of the five arabs aft, after searching them in a very methodical fashion for concealed arms. this done, she passed a rope round each arab in turn and lowered him into the hold; while at olive's suggestion a stone jar filled with water was placed in their prison.
"guess they'll be scared stiff when they come to," was mrs. shallop's grim comment, as she closed and secured the hatch. "where's any food? that job's made me feel quite peckish."
she disappeared into her cabin, while olive, left to her own resources, began her watch and ward by the side of the still unconscious wireless officer.
