Elliott and Henninger accordingly descended into the dhow’s shore-boat, which swung by its painter, carrying no weapons but their revolvers. Elliott took the oars, and while he rowed Henninger stood up and flourished his handkerchief. The other boat resumed its course at this signal, but was obliged to sheer westward for a quarter of a mile to find an entrance through the ring of reefs. Elliott and Henninger had been ashore for ten minutes when the steamer’s party landed at a point a hundred yards eastward upon the beach.
The strangers disembarked, nine of them, and seemed to consult together for a few moments. Two were in Arab dress, but the rest appeared to be white men of the lowest order, the white riffraff that gathers in the East African ports, a genuinely piratical crew, and every man carried his rifle. Finally, two men came forward with the flag of truce.
“That’s Sevier all right,” said Elliott, “and Carlton with him.”
So it proved, and the Alabaman saluted them with a suave flourish, and without any symptom of surprise.
“Good mo’nin’, Elliott,” he said. “Ah, I always knew you knew where this place was. We never ought to have let you go, but we were all rattled that night, as you’ll remember. I hope you enjoyed your trip to San Francisco?”
“Very much, thanks,” said Elliott. “Have you been to Ibo Island?”
“Yes, we’ve been at Ibo Island. Your slippery old sky-pilot played us a neat trick on that deal. Only for that, we’d have been here two weeks ago. Have you all fished up the stuff?”
“Yes, we’ve got it all aboard,” said Elliott, forgetting the two cases in the stern on the wreck.
“But we’ve no time for chat,” Henninger broke in. “My name’s Henninger, and I’m in a way the leader of this party. What do you want with us, gentlemen?”
“I think I met you once at Panama, Henninger,” said Carlton, as gruffly as ever.