After six weeks' incessant throbbing the great engines were still, and the Dunottar Castle lay at anchor a mile or two from the African coast and off the town of Attra. The heat, which in motion had been hard enough to bear, was positively stifling now. The sun burned down upon the glassy sea and the white deck till the varnish on the rails cracked and blistered, and the sweat streamed like water from the faces of the labouring seamen. Below at the ship's side half a dozen surf boats were waiting, manned by Kru boys, who alone seemed perfectly comfortable, and cheerful as usual. All around were preparations for landing—boxes were being hauled up from the hold, and people were going about in reach of small parcels and deck-chairs and missing acquaintances. Trent, in white linen clothes and puggaree, was leaning over the railing, gazing towards the town, when Da Souza came up to him—
“Last morning, Mr. Trent!”
Trent glanced round and nodded.
“Are you disembarking here?” he asked.
Da Souza admitted the fact. “My brother will meet me,” he said. “He is very afraid of the surf-boats, or he would have come out to the steamer. You remember him?”
“Yes, I remember him,” Trent answered. “He was not the sort of person one forgets.”
“He is a very rough diamond,” Da Souza said apologetically. “He has lived here so long that he has become almost half a native.”
“And the other half a thief,” Trent muttered.
Da Souza was not in the least offended.
“I am afraid,” he admitted, “that his morals are not up to the Threadneedle Street pitch, eh, Mr. Trent? But he has made quite a great deal of money. Oh, quite a sum I can assure you. He sends me some over to invest!”