On the upper deck stood Guy Chutney, straining his eyes through a pair of field-glasses to catch a last glimpse of the Cleopatra, and to distingussh, if possible, the figures grouped under the white awnings. He had only arrived at Aden last night, and now he was bound for the dreary African coast, while all the gay friends he had made on board the Cleopatra were steaming merrily off for Calcutta without him.
It was by no means a comforting state of affairs, and Guy’s spirits were at their lowest ebb as the steamer finally faded into the horizon. He put up the glasses and strode forward. From the lower deck came a confused babel of sounds, a harsh jabbering of foreign languages that grated roughly on his ear.
“This is a remarkably fine day, sir,”
It was the captain who spoke, a bluff, hearty man, who looked oddly out of place in white linen and a solar topee.
“It is a grand day,” said Guy. “May I ask when we are due at Zaila?”
“At Zaila?” repeated the captain, with a look of sudden surprise. “Ah, yes. Possibly tomorrow, probably not until the following day.”
It was now Guy’s turn to be surprised.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that it takes two or three days to cross the Gulf of Aden?”
“No,” replied the captain briskly. “You are surely aware, my dear sir, that we proceed first to Berbera, and thence up the coast to Zaila.”
“Then you have deceived me, sir,” cried Guy hotly. “You told me this morning that this steamer went to Zaila.”