With the perspiration pouring down his face, Mostyn supervised the removal of the ponderous girders from the enclosure, the Chief Mate being responsible for the storage of the material in the hold.
Presently the Old Man, puffing like a grampus, hurried up to Mostyn.
"Those four long bits won't stow," he announced. "Our main hold ain't long enough, not by five feet."
"Will they stow on deck?" asked Mostyn.
"And capsize the old hooker in the first bit o' dirty weather we run into?" rejoined the skipper caustically. "You don't catch me doing that, my dear sir. We'll have to leave 'em behind, and the Thylied can pick 'em up. She's about due to leave Port Elizabeth, and ought to be here in a week's time."
"Look here, Skipper," said Peter firmly. "You contracted to bring this consignment from Bulonga to Pangawani. I gave you the dimensions of the longest girders before we came to terms, and you declared to me that you could stow the whole of the consignment. And you'll have to do it."
"It ain't a matter of life an' death," expostulated the Old Man. "I'll make a liberal abatement in the freightage charges and—
"You won't," declared Mostyn firmly. "You won't, because you've got to ship every bit of that steelwork; so get busy."
The skipper of the Quilboma was one of those easy-going, obliging sort of fellows who can rarely make up their minds and act unless dominated by a person of strong, individual character. He was inclined to let things drift, and would assuredly choose the line of least resistance regardless of the consequences. As a navigator he was passable; as a seaman he lacked the alertness and decision necessary to shine at his profession. For years he had been in command of the Quilboma, and not once in that time had he found himself in a really tight corner. It was luck—pure luck—which might at a very inopportune moment let him down very badly.
"What do you suggest then?" he growled.