“All through what, Mr Dewar?”
“A bit of fat, sir. I’ll tell you again, and beg forgiveness in due form.”
The saloon of this huge dhow was furnished with truly oriental magnificence.
Lamps, mirrors, carpets, curtains, ottomans, and bijouterie, all in taste, all luxurious in the extreme.
The hold was filled to the hatches with moaning, pining slaves.
Hardly was there enough rice on board her to keep them alive for even a three weeks’ voyage, and scarcely water enough to keep them out of agony for a week.
But all this was changed now. The poor creatures were had up in batches, their irons were knocked off, they were washed and fed. Finally, everything was made clean and comfortable for them below, and when all was done that could be done, a prize crew was put on board, under the command of Harry Milvaine, and the dhow and the Bunting parted company with three ringing cheers three times repeated.
The gunboat steamed away north and by east, while the dhow spread her great wings to the breeze and went tacking away for Zanzibar.
Just two months after this, the Bunting was nearing Symon’s Town, all having gone as merrily with her, since leaving Calcutta, as marriage bells. Dr Scott and Dewar were chaffing each other, as they very frequently did.
The doctor had a long string floating overboard from the stern, and every now and then he caught and hauled on board a Cape pigeon, which he had managed by skilful manoeuvring to entangle with his tackle.