The loss of her foremast did not improve the appearance of the Bunting, but as they would now complete the voyage under steam, and repair damages at Calcutta, it did not matter very much.
She was kept more in towards the low sandy coast, for north here never a tree or shrub may be seen, while away down south of the line the ocean is edged with a cloudland of green, the leafy mangroves growing on the beach—yes, and in the water itself.
Low sandy hills, and mountains and rocks beyond. Sometimes they come in sight of a squalid Somali-Arab village, but there was no inducement to land.
But see, what is that stealing out round the point? A dhow, and a very large one; a two-masted vessel.
She notices the Bunting as soon as they notice her, and immediately puts about and stands away northward before the breeze.
This is suspicious, and the Bunting gives chase. The dhow has a four miles’ start and goes swinging along at a wonderful rate.
“Go ahead at full speed,” is the order.
The Bunting is gaining on the dhow, but in another hour it will be dark.
Mr Dewar slips slyly down below. He goes to the store-room, and a few minutes afterwards he appears at the engine-room door, bearing in his arms half a side of fat bacon.
He winks to the engineer. The latter cuts off a huge junk and sticks it in the fire.