"Hoist the pilot flag," he ordered.
The pilot flag—S International—was quickly forthcoming. In the absence of a set of signal flags on board, Olive, under Peter's direction, had made the required flag out of some white linen and a square of blue cloth from the Arab skipper's wardrobe.
The signal was answered with far greater dispatch than at Bulonga, and within half an hour the Pangawani pilot boat was alongside.
"Hello!" was the greeting of the dapper clean-shaven official, as he came over the side and regarded with undisguised astonishment the bedraggled and somewhat battered crew of the dhow. "Hello! You look as if you've been in the wars. Where are you from?"
Before Mostyn could reply Preston broke in:
"Davis, old son!" he exclaimed. "Cut the cackle and get us in. I'm dying for a whisky and soda."
"Great Scott!" ejaculated the pilot in astonishment. "Preston, by the powers! We heard that you were lost in the West Barbican."
"All you hear isn't gospel, my bright youth," rejoined the Acting Chief sententiously, as he took a cigarette from the case offered by the port official. "Hardly expected to see you here, if it comes to that."
"They transferred me from Zanzibar in November last," exclaimed Davis. "It's a move up. Here I'm practically my own boss."
He walked towards the tiller, turned on his heel, and glanced shorewards.