Miss Baird had taken her great disappointment remarkably well. On the principle that there is no time like the present, she refused to dwell upon the prospects of returning home. She would have to, she supposed, in due course; meanwhile she was on board the _West Barbican_ without any immediate chance of returning even as far as Durban. And the longer the voyage the better, she decided.

"This doesn't look promising for our sail, Miss Baird," said Peter.

"The tide's ebbing like a millrace. Look at those trunks of trees coming down. They'd give a small boat a nasty biff if they fouled her."

"And no wind," added the girl. "Mr. Preston was telling me that in the harbours on this coast it blows from the land from sunset till about ten o'clock, and from the sea from a little after sunrise till ten in the morning. Between times it's usually a flat calm."

The harbour viewed from within looked far more uninviting than it did from the offing. The ebb was in full swing--a turgid, evil-smelling rush of coffee-coloured water. Already the mud-banks fringing the mangrove-covered islands were uncovering and throwing out a noxious mist under the powerful rays of the tropical sun, which was now almost immediately overhead.

Mostyn found himself comparing Bulonga Harbour most unfavourably with the lovely lagoons and coral reefs of the Pacific islands.

"It may be better later on in the afternoon," he remarked. "Say an hour before high water. If----"

He broke off abruptly, for Captain Bullock was descending the bridge-ladder.

"h.e.l.lo, young lady!" exclaimed the skipper. "What do you say to a run in my launch? I'm sending her up-stream in a few minutes. You'll be snug enough under the double canopy over the stern-sheets."

"It ought to be rather exciting, Captain Bullock," replied Olive, glancing at the surging ebb. "It would be very nice to see what it's like."

"Right-o!" rejoined the skipper. "Mr. Mostyn, will you take charge of the boat? You seem the best man for the job, considering that it's your father's steelwork we are dealing with. Take this letter to a Senhor Jose Aguilla, who hangs out at a place called Duelha. I'll show you it on a chart. Get him to come down as soon as possible. If he's like the rest of these gentry that will be _manana_. In any case, bring back a written reply to this letter."

"Very good, sir."

"Carry on, then. Pa.s.s the word for the serang to have the motor-boat hoisted out and the awnings and side-curtains spread. Miss Baird, can you be ready in a quarter of an hour?"

Mostyn hurried away to carry out his instructions.

"Good sort, the Old Man," he soliloquized. "And at one time I thought I'd hate him like poison. It just shows a fellow that it's not wise to judge by first impressions."

Promptly the serang and half a dozen lascars came upon the scene and began to cast off the lashings that secured the motor-boat to No. 2 hatch. The little craft was Captain Bullock's private property. She was about twenty-five feet in length, carvel-built of teak, and had a 12-horse-power paraffin engine installed under the fore-deck.

'Midships was a well, fitted with a wheel and motor controls, while the s.p.a.cious c.o.c.kpit aft was provided with a folding hood, as well as double awnings spread between tall bra.s.s stanchions.

In less than ten minutes the boat had been swung out by means of a derrick, and was straining at her painter alongside the accommodation ladder.

With Senhor Aguilla's letter in the breast-pocket of his drill tunic and his automatic in his hip-pocket, Mostyn waited at the head of the ladder until Olive appeared, wearing a light, linen skirt and coat and a topee with a gold-edged pugaree.

It was "stand easy". Notwithstanding the tremendous heat the officers were spending their leisure in a manner followed by Britons all the world over. They were playing cricket, with the netted promenade-deck as the field, and stumps precariously supported by a small wooden base.

Yet the thrill of deck-cricket paled into insignificance when Olive Baird appeared. One and all the players flocked to the side to watch her departure in the Old Man's motor-boat.

From the top of the accommodation ladder Peter signed to the native engineer, and by the time Olive stepped agilely into the stern-sheets, without taking advantage of Mostyn's proffered hand, the motor was purring gently.

"Let go aft--let go for'ard!" ordered Peter. "Touch ahead."

By a gentle movement of the wheel Mostyn got the boat clear of the ship's side without the risk of hitting the propeller. He knew from experience that the effect of helm is to swing a boat's stern round and not her bows. Then, with a sign to the native engineer to "let her all out", Peter steadied the boat on her course.

The Old Man's private launch was no sluggard. She could do a good nine knots, but her progress against the formidable ebb seemed tediously slow. She was slipping through the coffee-coloured water quickly enough, as her bow-wave and clear wake denoted; but she seemed to be crawling past the low river banks at less than a slow walking pace.

Peter did not mind. He had no idea of wasting time in the execution of his orders, but, on the other hand, the relatively slow progress did not worry him. He was perfectly happy. Olive, too, was obviously enjoying the run. The breeze set up by the motion of the boat through the still air was delightfully cooling after the enervating atmosphere on board the _West Barbican_ alongside the wharf.

"Like to take her?" asked Peter, when a bend of the river hid them from the ship.

"Rather," replied Miss Baird promptly, and, nimbly negotiating the bulkhead between the stern-sheets and the steering-well, she mounted the low, grating-fitted platform and grasped the wheel.

Mostyn, who had relinquished the helm, stood just behind and a little to the side, so that he could command a view ahead. Occasionally he had to consult the chart in order to avoid the numerous sand-banks.

"Look out for those floating logs, Miss Baird," he cautioned, as three or four huge tree trunks, green with trailing weed, rolled lazily over and over in their aimless pa.s.sage to the open sea.

Olive avoided them easily. Peter's confidence in the helmswoman increased by leaps and bounds. There was no hesitation on her part, no bungling as the swift, frail craft pa.s.sed between two of the logs with less than six feet to spare on either side.

"Give that log a wide berth, Miss Baird," observed her companion, after a number of obstructions had been avoided. "Unless I'm much mistaken we'll find that log has a motor of sorts. Yes, by Jove! it has!"

The "log" was an enormous hippopotamus, floating motionless on the water, with only its snout and a small portion of its back showing above the surface.

At this point the river had contracted considerably, the actual waterway being less than twenty yards from bank to bank, although at half tide these banks were submerged and the width of the stream increased to nearly a quarter of a mile.

Olive meant to give the brute as wide a berth as possible, while, on the other hand, the hippo resolved on close quarters with the motor-boat.

Instead of diving to the muddy bottom of the river the hippopotamus began to swim rapidly towards the launch, opening its huge jaws with evident relish at the prospect of biting out a few square feet of gunwale and topside as an entree.

Mostyn and the native c.o.xswain, who had hitherto been "standing easy", were keenly on the alert. The latter, seizing an oar, made ready to deal a blow upon the brute's head, although the hippo would have paid no more attention to the blow than he would to being tickled with a straw.

Olive showed no sign of nervousness. In fact, she acted so coolly and with such excellent judgment that Peter made no attempt to grasp the wheel.

Seeing the animal approach, the girl edged the boat well over to the port side of the narrow channel. In spite of the speed of the launch it was apparent that the hippo would cut it off if the same direction were maintained.

Not until the boat's stem was within twenty yards of the brute did Olive alter helm. Then, with a quick, even movement, she put the helm hard-a-port.

Before the unwieldy animal could turn, the launch had literally sc.r.a.ped the hippo's submerged hindquarters. Then, swinging the boat back on her former course, the girl glanced at her companion.

"Near thing, that," she remarked. "I wonder that would have happened if we'd hit it?"

"We would have come off worst," replied Peter, who, now the danger was over, was beginning to realize what the consequences might have been.

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking on," said Olive a little later.

Mostyn took the helm. Although the girl had given no reason for wanting to relinquish the wheel, he felt pretty certain that the incident had shaken her up a bit.

"You're all right?" he asked.

"Quite," was the reply.

Presently the river widened considerably. The launch was now within half a mile of her destination, but, according to the chart, there was a submerged bank on the starboard hand, and fairly deep water close to the right bank.

Without warning the impetus of the launch was arrested. Peter was flung against the wheel; Olive, losing her balance, cannoned into him, and was saved from a violent concussion against the coaming by the fact that the native c.o.xswain had got there first, and had been winded by his impact with the woodwork. The engineer, who had crawled under the fore-deck to replenish the contents of a grease-cup, was flung along the narrow floor by the motor and finished up by b.u.t.ting the petrol tank.

"Aground!" exclaimed Mostyn, stating what was an obvious and accomplished fact.

The engine was racing furiously. Jerking the reverse lever into the astern position Peter hoped that the action of the powerful propeller would release the launch from her predicament. It was in vain. The motor was racing as fast as ever, but there was no flow of water past the boat's side to indicate that the propeller was going astern.