etween us and them. A shot or two from Schillingschens rifle proved
him to be still alive, and still determined, but missed us by so much
that we began to dare to sit upright. Then Fred went below to sort out
wounded men, plug holes in the dhow, and stop the panic, and we all
prayed for wind with a fervor they never exceeded in Nelson's fleet.

When Will had gone below to help Fred, the panic had ceased, two dead
men had been thrown overboard, and six of the crew had been set to work
bailing in deadly earnest to keep ahead of the new leaks, there was
time to consider the position and to realize how hugely better off we
were than if the launch had caught us somewhere close inshore. Now we
could sail safely northward, every puff of wind carrying us nearer to
British water and safety, whereas unless they could mend that
high-pressure boiler, they would have to lie there for a week, or a
month--die unless some one came in search of them. Had we holed their
boiler near the shore they would have been able to take to the land
until they found canoes. Good canoes, well manned, could have
overhauled us hand over fist like terriers after a rat.

It was fifteen minutes yet before we were out of rifle range, and
Schillingschen tried to make the most of them when the steam thinned,
exposing his beefy carcass recklessly. But by the time it had thinned
down sufficiently to let him really see us we were too far away to make
sure shooting. He slit the sail, giving us half a night's work to mend
it, and made three more holes in our planking, but hurt nobody.

That was the only launch the German government had on the lake in those
days, an almost perfect toy with an aluminum hull and more up-to-date
gadgets on her machinery than a battleship's engineer could have
explained the purpose of in a watch. They had lavished a whole
appropriation on one show. From the minute we were out of range of
Schillingschen's big-bore elephant gun we ran risk of starvation, and
perhaps surprise, but no longer of pursuit, and we headed the Queen of
Sheba as nearly as we could guess for British East with feelings that
even Lady Waldon shared, for she grew distantly polite again, and
complimented Fred on his cool nerve and accurate shooting.

We should have suspected treachery, for she made no attempt to
retaliate on Rebecca for scratching her face. Unnatural inaction
should have put us on our guard. She even went so far as to compliment
the maid