ning' and 'Good evening' in broken English to the
captain, that was about all the talking I did on the cruise.

We dropped anchor off the quays of Lisbon on a shiny blue morning,
pretty near warm enough to wear flannels. I had now got to be very
wary. I did not leave the ship with the shore-going boat, but made a
leisurely breakfast. Then I strolled on deck, and there, just casting
anchor in the middle of the stream, was another ship with a blue and
white funnel I knew so well. I calculated that a month before she had
been smelling the mangrove swamps of Angola. Nothing could better
answer my purpose. I proposed to board her, pretending I was looking
for a friend, and come on shore from her, so that anyone in Lisbon who
chose to be curious would think I had landed straight from Portuguese
Africa.

I hailed one of the adjacent ruffians, and got into his rowboat, with
my kit. We reached the vessel--they called her the _Henry the
Navigator_--just as the first shore-boat was leaving. The crowd in it
were all Portuguese, which suited my book.

But when I went up the ladder the first man I met was old Peter Pienaar.

Here was a piece of sheer monumental luck. Peter had opened his eyes
and his mouth, and had got as far as '_Allemachtig_', when I shut him
up.

'Brandt,' I said, 'Cornelis Brandt. That's my name now, and don't you
forget it. Who is the captain here? Is it still old Sloggett?'

'_Ja,_' said Peter, pulling himself together. 'He was speaking about
you yesterday.'

This was better and better. I sent Peter below to get hold of
Sloggett, and presently I had a few words with that gentleman in his
cabin with the door shut.

'You've got to enter my name in the ship's books. I came aboard at
Mossamedes. And my name's Cornelis Brandt.'

At first Sloggett was for objecting. He said it was a felony. I told
him that I dared say it was, but he had got to do it, for reasons which
I couldn't give, but which were highly creditable to all parties. In
the end he agreed, and I saw it done. I had a pull on old Sloggett,
for I had known him ever since he owned a dissolute tug-boat at Delagoa
Bay.

Then Peter and I went ashore and swaggered into Lisbon as if we owned
De Beers. We put up at the big hotel opposite the railway station, and
looked and behaved like a pair of lowbred South Africans home for a
spree. It was a fine bright day, so I hired a motor-car and said I
would drive it myself. We asked