A tedious wait followed. There was no denying the fact that it was tedious. Peter and the girl sat under the after canopy, but a tête-à-tête under these conditions was very different from one on the promenade-deck of the West Barbican on a tranquil, starlit night. It was hot—insufferably so. Not only did the sun pour fiercely down upon the double awning. The mud, now "dry", was radiating heat—a clammy, evil-smelling heat, as the rotting vegetation left high and dry by the receding tide lay sweltering in the sunshine. The heavy, motionless air, for there was not the faintest suspicion of a breeze, reeked as only the air of an African swamp can—an overpowering, nauseating stench. Thrown in as a makeweight came the reek of hot oil from the badly overheated engine.
"Tide's turning," said Peter, breaking the long silence.
There was no lull in the change from ebb to flood. At one moment the brownish waters were foaming seawards; at the next a miniature "bore" was breaking over the fringe of the mud-flats, bringing with it a collection of flotsam in the form of branches and trunks of trees.
"'Fraid I'm giving you a rotten time," continued Peter apologetically. "Sailing with Preston and Anstey in Durban must have been a joy compared with this—and you told me you didn't like it a bit. You must think I'm a rotten pilot."
"Nearly everyone gets aground some time or other," replied Olive. "The awkward part is that this isn't exactly like the mud-banks of the Tamar. And it's unfortunate about the propeller. What do you propose to do when we float?"
"Row up to Duelha. It's less than half a mile. If we can't get a spare propeller we might ask Senhor Aguilla to tow us back in his motor-boat."
The flood-tide made with great rapidity. In less than half an hour the launch was afloat. The two lascars manned the oars, and the boat, borne rapidly by the tide, quickly covered the remainder of the way to Duelha.
The Portuguese agent was overwhelmingly polite. He insisted on entertaining Olive and Peter to coffee, and promised to tow the disabled launch back to the ship, at the same time regretting that there were no facilities at Duelha for repairs.
"Eet is no trouvel, senhor," declared the Portuguese. "I myself vill speak to el capitano Bullock concerning de stores from de sheep. Eet is pleasair to do business vid de Englees all de time."
It was sunset before Olive and Peter returned to the S.S. West Barbican.