"Tell them to get for’ard," I yelled to Jaffa, and saw him crawl aft and shout something at them, gesticulating in a commanding way, though those infernal fellows only smiled and sat still, half a dozen of them holding on to the tiller ropes. Dobson looked at me and bawled in my ear: "I’ll get hold of the helm tackles—just you shoot if any of them tries any of their tricks." "No! I’ll go," I yelled, ashamed to funk the job. I waited till the dhow was steady for a moment, worked my way along the weather gunwale, dodging those balks of timber which were being washed about the deck, until I was right in the middle of them. That beastly little dog snapped at my bare feet as I grabbed one of the tiller ropes to steady myself, and I kicked him back under the poop. I yelled and waved to the crew to get for’ard, staying among them and kicking two of them in the ribs to make them let go of the ropes. They took not the slightest notice. The nakhoda was just behind me, and I feared, every moment, that I should feel a knife in my back. Jaffa came scrambling to join me—I never thought that he would have the pluck to do so. "Tell the nakhoda that if the crew don’t go for’ard in two minutes I’ll shoot him," I roared. The nakhoda looked impassively to wind’ard whilst I pointed my revolver at his head and held up my wrist watch, so that he could see it, and waited. A minute went past—Jaffa looked nervously round; the nakhoda folded his burnous more closely round his head. Two minutes went by—not a single one in all that stolid group moved; they still clung to the tiller ropes. I gave him three minutes. Three minutes went by, and that Arab nakhoda knew perfectly well that I would not shoot him in cold blood. Nor could I. I let go the tiller rope and crawled for’ard again, absolutely not knowing what to do next. We were driving and twisting, screwing and yawing before the gale like a bit of driftwood, seas toppling over the bows and the waist and washing right across the decks. And that crowd refused to budge—would not have done anything to save their own lives, I believe. If they had only taken the offensive and attacked us I should have whooped with the joy of fighting—that cargo of rifles down below was worth fighting for—but they would not. Dobson it was who settled the question. With a "Look out, sir, I’m going for ’em", he took the opportunity of a moment when the dhow was on a level keel and rushed into the middle of them. He seized the burnous over the nakhoda’s head, and before that malignant brute could get his hands free he had hauled the loose folds across his throat, choked him, pulled him off the poop on to the deck, and began hauling him for’ard.