The man grunted a surly affirmative.
"Well, you will take the helm, and steer us in to the most convenient moorings."
He turned away, smiling at the look of utter consternation on the Gujarati's face. To be trusted after his treacherous conduct was evidently more than the man could understand. The easy unconcern with which Desmond walked away had its effect on the crew. When orders were given to take in sail they carried them out with promptitude, and Desmond chuckled as he saw them talking to one another in low tones and discussing him, as he guessed by their glances in his direction. The Gujarati performed his work at the helm skilfully, and about five o'clock, when the sun was setting, casting a romantic glow over the long straggling settlement, the Tremukji ran to her anchorage among a host of small craft, within a few cables-lengths of the vessels of Admiral Watson's squadron, which had arrived from Madras a few weeks before.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
In which our hero finds himself among friends; and Colonel Clive prepares to astonish Angria.
The entrance of a strange grab had not passed unnoticed. Before the anchor had been dropped, the superintendent of marine put off in a toni.
"What grab is that?" he shouted in Urdu, as he came alongside.
"The Tremukji, sir," replied Desmond in English.
"Eh! what! who in the name of Jupiter are you?"
"You'd better come aboard, sir, and I'll explain," said Desmond with a smile.