thod by which the unwieldy spar should be made to
pass the mast when tacking, drill Fred, Will, Brown and Kazimoto, and
then haul up the anchor and sail away before people on shore could see
us.

We had to tack toward Muanza for a quarter of a mile with fear in our
arms to make them clumsy before I dared believe we were clear of the
reefs; but when I put the helm down at last there was neither launch
in sight nor any other boat that might contain an enemy. The southern
spur of Ukerewe stuck out like a wedge into boiling water not many
miles ahead, and once around that we should be sheltered. The only fly
in the ointment then was the probability that the launch would be
waiting for us just around the spur, or else under the lee of another
smaller island in the offing to our left, but what we could not see in
that hour could not upset us much.

Every one clamored for food. The porters, already forgetful of the
chain that had galled them, and the whips that had flayed them day and
night, demanded to be set ashore to build a fire and eat. Lady Saffren
Waldon awoke to fresh bad temper, and Coutlass, too, grew villainously
impatient. His Greek friend, from under the shelter of the leaky
reed-and-tarpaulin deck, offered him Greek advice, and was cursed for
his trouble. One curse led to another, and then they both had to be
beaten into subjection with the first thing handy, because when they
fought Lady Saffren Waldon egged them on and the maid tried to savage
the other Greek with a brooch-pin, which brought out the Goanese to the
rescue. That crowded dhow was no place for pitched battles, plunging
and rolling between the frying-pan of Muanza and the fire of unknown
things ahead.

"One more outbreak from you, and I shoot!" Fred announced, patting the
rifle. But, he did not mean it, and Coutlass knew he did not. The
English temperament does not turn readily on even the most rascally
fellow beings in distress. Besides, it was an indubitable fact that we
all much preferred Coutlass, with his daring record, and now a most
outrageous love-affair on hand, to the other Greek or the Goanese, who
were now disposed to bid for our friendship by abusing him. Georges
Coutlass was no drawing-room darling, or worthy citizen of any land,
but he had courage of a kind, and a sort of splendid fire that made men
forget his turpitude.

We were a seasick, cold and sorry company that rounded the point at
last and came to anchor in a c