d
there's a short jetty. Sorry I can't give you latitude and longitude.
You'll catch 'em if you hurry up. Hope you will, and--run 'em in.
Good-bye."

He set the engine at full speed again, and as the aeroplane soared on
like a swallow its departure was followed by a lusty British cheer.

"Three hours late, mister," Rodier bawled in Smith's ear.

CHAPTER VII

THE WHITE DJINN

It was half-past six by Smith's watch, near eleven by local time, when
the aeroplane sailed across the long mangrove swamp that forms the
western side of the harbour of Karachi. The sun was intensely fierce,
and Smith, who found its glare affecting his eyes painfully, had
donned a pair of huge blue-glass goggles. He was glad that he had done
so when, passing over the crowded shipping of the port, he saw the
sandy arid tracts around and beyond the town. Steamers hooted as the
aeroplane flew above them; half-naked coolies lading the vessels with
wheat and cotton, the produce of Sindh and the Punjab, dropped their
loads and stared upwards in stupefied amazement. Smith could not wait
to enjoy his first view of an Indian city. His business was to land at
the first convenient place and find Mr. John Jenkinson, whose godown
was near the Custom House, and obtain from him the petrol bespoken by
Mr. Barracombe.

Being in complete ignorance where the Custom House lay, though he
guessed it would be somewhere near the seafront, he was at first at a
loss in which direction to make. There was no suitable landing-place
in the crowded city itself, and to the immediate south of it there
appeared to be nothing but mangrove swamps. Ascending to a
considerable height, however, he saw, some distance to the east, near
a railway line, a stretch of open brownish ground on which little red
flags stood up at intervals. He instantly jumped to the conclusion
that this was the golf course, though at this time of day there were
no players to confirm his judgment. This was an advantage, because it
promised that he might land without being beset by curious spectators.
Accordingly he steered in that direction, hoping that having safely
landed his aeroplane he might find some means of reaching the merchant
whose name Mr. Barracombe had cabled to him.

It happened that, just as the aeroplane swooped down upon the golf
course, an open vehicle like a victoria was driving slowly along a
road that crossed it from the railway towards the city. The turbaned
driver pulled u