Another hour passed. Nothing of an unusual nature happened. Mostyn began to wonder whether his precautions had been in vain. He was feeling a bit sleepy by this time, but he had no desire to arouse his injured companion. He was content to take Preston's word for the deed, but if he were to keep awake he simply must have some fresh air.
With this purpose in view Peter crept cautiously across the sleeping Mahmed, drew aside the flap of the tent, and gained the open air. It was now a fairly bright starlit night. The cool breeze thrummed tunefully through the scanty rigging, gently filling the huge, triangular, lateen sails. The foot of the mainsail was cut so low that from where Mostyn stood, just abaft of the foremast, the shelving poop was hidden from view.
Bareheaded and lightly-clad he grasped one of the weather-shrouds and drunk in great draughts of the ozone-laden air. He realized the relief of being no longer responsible for the safety of his charges, so far as seamanship and navigation were concerned. Day after day, night after night in an open boat had considerably dimmed his ardour for exercising command.
After a while he wanted a cigarette, but remembered that he had left his share in the breast-pocket of his drill tunic.
"Better be turning in again," he soliloquized, with visions of malaria in his mind. "It's rather a risky game hanging about here."
Even as he turned to regain the shelter a shriek rent the air. Less than ten feet from where he stood were a couple of Arabs kneeling beside the collapsed tent. One was holding the canvas down with hands and feet, while the other, knife in hand, was raining furious blows upon the defenceless and sleeping men pinned beneath.
CHAPTER XXXIII
A Fight to a Finish
A mad fury seized upon the Wireless Officer. Without giving a thought to the automatic pistol in his hip-pocket he hurled himself upon the treacherous Arabs.