About three in the afternoon, the engines gave a final jerk and fetched up soundless. The Chief—and only—Engineer emerged for emphatic converse with Alibaba.
He was an obese Indian with a naturally depressed air and an easy flow of perspiration. His hair and drooping moustaches were grey. I fancy a day or two in the engine-room of the Mimi would send Phœbus Apollo a bit grey.
Skipper and engineer disappeared, but the sounds of hammering between decks indicated their continued existence. After half an hour they emerged, dirtier than ever and swimming in sweat. Dick, now thoroughly uneasy, thought the time for direct action had arrived, and joined the party. Norah, watching from the bows, guessed from the bowing, shrugging, and upturned palms that the situation was not satisfactory. She was right.
'I can't understand engine-room shop in a mixture of Swahili and Hindustani,' confided Dick, 'but I gather from Alibaba it's case of "that engine no good, sir," and "big rod he very sick, sir, he wantee for die."'
'I suppose we'll have to make for the nearest White Fathers,' said Norah, 'though I do feel an adulterous couple a bit "de trop" at a mission.'
'Alibaba says there isn't a mission anywhere for 100 miles either way up or down this side of the lake.'
'Can't we do that slowly?'
'He says not.'
'What about crossing over to the other side?'
'That's forty miles or so from here, and the engines are good for another ten at the most. No, what they want is to put into a little bay just out of sight round that headland, where there's good anchorage for the night.'