He turned away, smiling at the look of utter consternation on the Gujarati’s face. To be trusted after his treacherous conduct was evidently more than the man could understand. The easy unconcern with which Desmond walked away had its effect on the crew. When orders were given to take in sail they carried them out with promptitude, and Desmond chuckled as he saw them talking to one another in low tones and discussing him, as he guessed by their glances in his direction. The Gujarati performed his work at the helm skilfully, and about five o’clock, when the sun was setting, casting a romantic glow over the long straggling settlement, the _Tremukji_ ran to her anchorage among a host of small craft, within a few cables-lengths of the vessels of Admiral Watson’s squadron, which had arrived from Madras a few weeks before. CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH *In which our hero finds himself among friends; and Colonel Clive prepares to astonish Angria.* The entrance of a strange grab had not passed unnoticed. Before the anchor had been dropped, the superintendent of marine put off in a toni. "What grab is that?" he shouted in Urdu, as he came alongside. "The _Tremukji_, sir," replied Desmond in English. "Eh! what! who in the name of Jupiter are you?" "You’d better come aboard, sir, and I’ll explain," said Desmond with a smile. The superintendent mounted the side, rapping out sundry exclamations of astonishment that amused Desmond not a little. "Don’t talk like a native! H’m! Queer! Turn him inside out! No nonsense!" "Well, here I am," he added, stepping up to Desmond. "My name’s Johnson, and I’m superintendent of marine. Now then, explain; no nonsense!" Desmond liked the look of the little man. He was short and stout, with a very large red face, a broad turn-up nose, and childlike blue eyes that bespoke confidence at once. "My name is Desmond Burke, sir, and I’ve run away from Gheria in this grab." "The deuce you have!" "Yes, sir. I’ve been a prisoner there for six months and more, and we got off a few nights ago in the darkness." "H’m! Any more Irishmen aboard?" "Not that I’m aware of, sir." "And you got away from Gheria, did you? You’re the first that ever I heard did so. Nothing to do with Commodore James, eh?" "No, sir. I don’t know what you mean." "Why, Commodore James started t’other day to take a good sea-look at Gheria. There’s an expedition getting ready to draw that rascally Pirate’s teeth. You saw nothing of the squadron? No nonsense, now." "Not a thing, sir. We were blown out to sea, and I suppose the Commodore passed us in the night." "H’m! Very likely. And you weathered that storm, did you? Learnt your seamanship, eh?" "Picked up a little on board the _Good Intent_, sir. I was ship’s boy aboard." "Mighty queer ship’s boy!" said Mr. Johnson in an audible aside. "The _Good Intent’s_ a villainous interloper; how came you aboard of her?"