Nevertheless the skipper had to wait, impatiently and irritably, until such times as the easy-going officials sent out a pilot.
It was more than an hour later before a white motor-boat with an awning fore and aft was seen approaching the ship.
As the boat drew nearer its ugliness became apparent. The paint was dirty, and in places rubbed away to the bare planking. The awning had seen better days, and had been roughly patched in a dozen places. A couple of coir fenders trailed drunkenly over the side, while the painter was dragging through the water. The motor was wheezing like a worn-out animal and emitting smoke from numerous leaky joints, while the clutch, slipping badly, was rasping like a rusty file.
A Zanzibari native was "tending" the engine, and a half-caste Portuguese was at the wheel. In the stern-sheets was a short and very stout man puffing at an enormous cigar. He wore a dirty white uniform with a lavish display of tarnished gilt braid, while set at an angle on his bushy hair was a peaked cap with the Mozambique arms.
"Goo' mornin', Senhor Capitano!" he exclaimed, when the boat ranged awkwardly alongside. "Me pilot. Get you in in shake o' brace—no—brace o' shake."
Still puffing his cigar the Portuguese pilot came over the side and waddled on to the bridge.
"Vat you draw?" he inquired.
The Old Man gave him the ship's draught.
"Ver' mooch," rejoined the pilot, shrugging his shoulders. "Tide go. Why you no call me before?"
But get her in he did, although the propeller was throwing up muddy sand and the keel plates were slithering over the bottom.