"Do we?" he asked. "Look astern now."
To the surprise of everyone else in the boat a large sailing craft was bowling along dead in their wake. She was now a little less than a mile away, and had evidently been attracted by the signals made to the craft that had so recently been sighted in vain.
"A rum sort of packet, by Jove!" exclaimed Peter.
"A dhow, my sweet youth," explained Preston. "'Tisn't often you find 'em so far south, but you'll see shoals of them up along the coast from Mozambique and Zanzibar right up to the Red Sea and Persian Gulf. Clumsy-looking hookers, but they can shift."
It was Mostyn's first sight of an Arab dhow. He had seen plenty of Chinese junks in Shanghai whilst he was on the Pacific trade. This craft reminded him of them, only its rig was more in accord with Western ideas. End-on it was impossible to see that the masts raked at different angles, but the well-drawing lateen sails and the "bone in her teeth" indicated that she was a swift craft ably managed. Even in the light air she was moving at about six knots.
The Wireless Officer leant forward and whispered in Preston's ear.
"S'pose she's all jonnick, old man?" he asked.
"Sure," replied the Acting Chief. "The slave-dhow and the gun-runner are as dead as the dodo in these parts. Probably she's a trader from Reunion, blown out of her course by the late hurricane. Nothing to worry about, old son."
"Right-o!" rejoined Mostyn, and ordered the lascars to lower the sail and to stand by with the painter.
By this time the dhow, which was coming up "hand over fist", was about a cable's length astern. From the boat it was impossible to see the helmsman of the overtaking craft, owing to the foot of the lateen sail, but in her low bows could be discovered three Arabs intently looking in the direction of the now motionless little craft.