"What's the time, Phipson?" "Two thirty," said Phipson, holding his watch out to the broad moonlight. "We reach Pazobin at seven to-morrow, pick up the men, and go straight on." Peregrine made no answer, but his white face as it shone out of the moonlight almost scared Phipson, so fixed and rigid was its look. "I say, Jackson!" "What is it?" "That was a devil of a ride. Think I'll turn in and take a nap, and you'd better do the same." This was the policeman's way of telling his friend he looked worn to death. "No, thanks, Phipson, I can't sleep; I must see this thing through." Phipson stretched himself out in a long cane chair and watched his friend as he paced slowly up and down the small quarterdeck. "He must be devilish keen," he murmured to himself, "or devilish hard hit." And then all the starlight seemed to dim, and he was asleep. In the white mists of the morning they reached Pazobin, and, taking on board their men, started on at once. Phipson had persuaded Peregrine to rest. "Look here," he said, "this is all Tommy rot! You've got to rest. Have some grub first, throw away that infernal cheroot, and go and lie down. You've _fighting_ to do this evening, and will want your head and your nerves in first-rate order." There was no gainsaying this, and after lunch Jackson fell into a deep sleep. He was aroused by a scrunching noise, and woke with a start. "What's the matter?" "The matter is that it's half-past six, and that damned idiot of a _serang_ has stuck us fast into a sandbank, and we can only get off with the next tide. There's only one thing to be done. Get the boats from Thomadine village and row for it." Thomadine village was half a mile below, but a small boat had raced them as far as the scene of the disaster. Matters were rapidly explained to the occupants of the boat, the explanation was made clear by the line of shining barrels that was pointed toward them, and they pulled up alongside the Beeloo. Some of the crew were temporarily transferred to the steamer, three or four policemen took their places, and the long canoe danced back to the village. It was fully an hour before it returned, bringing with it two other canoes, and, leaving the police tug with strict orders to come on with the next tide, Jackson and his men embarked in the boats, and, hugging the bank, rowed for their lives. It was no time for words, no time for anything but to strain every muscle to reach their goal. Suddenly a broad sheet of flame lit the sky, and the reports of half a dozen matchlocks rang out in quick succession; then came the short, sharp crack of a Winchester, then another and another. "By God, they've begun!" shouted Phipson. "Row on, you devils!" "There's a short cut by the creek, sahib!" called out Serferez, and the snake head of the leading boat, steered by Jackson, turned promptly round, and with a little white sparkle of foam fizzing over her bows she shot into the creek, followed in quick succession by her fellows.