Among the first who came on board, I was pleased to see my old friend, Mahomed Gholoum. Being a good seaman, he had, on the former mission, in the year 1800, acted as our pilot from Muscat to Ormus. He was now advanced to be a pilot of the state, being one of the principal ministers of the young Imâm, of whose character he spoke in high praise. "His father," said he, "was a brave man; he was killed in battle; and if his son goes on exposing himself everywhere, he will be killed also. He will regret much not seeing the Envoy, of whose kindness to him when a boy he retains a grateful recollection; for he preserves with great care the model of a seventy-four gun ship, with which he was presented by him." Mahomed Gholoum was not changed by his prosperity, but retained all the frankness and manliness of an Arab sailor. We had many old stories, and at one, in which he was a prominent actor, he laughed very heartily. He had wished to take our vessel, the Bombay frigate, to the southward of Ormus; but as we neared that island, the wind headed us, as the sailors call it, at the same time that it increased to a gale, and our pilot told the captain we had nothing left but to run for the harbour we desired to make, by steering between the island and the Persian shore. We did so; the weather became worse--it blew a hurricane; the channel, which is narrow, was missed, and we touched on a mud-bank, where the ship settled for a moment, and the waves dashed over her. The captain ordered more sail, to try and force her through the mud, exclaiming at the same time, "I would rather give a lac of rupees than lose the Company's ship." "Never mind the Company's ship," said a passenger, "so you land us safe." The seaman in the chains kept heaving the lead, and calling "Quarter less three." "What is the use of your quarter less three," said an impatient landsman, "when the ship is aground?" "That's the captain's business, not mine," said the unconcerned Jack, and again he hove, and again he called "Quarter less three." At this moment my attention was drawn to my friend Mahomed Gholoum, who was appalled by an Irish officer's exclaiming, "I do not understand your vile lingo; but I will cut your throat, (and he sawed with his finger across his windpipe to make him comprehend what he meant,) I will cut your throat, you ignoramus, for drowning of gentlemen in this rascally sea." As these scenes were passing, the press of sail which had been put upon our vessel forced her over the bank: a few minutes more saw us safe in the harbour of Ormus, and all our danger forgotten. Mahomed Gholoum, quite exhausted, had, soon after we anchored, fallen asleep on a couch in the captain's cabin; but he was dreaming of past events, and when I shook him, to make him rise to partake of supper, he started up, and with a wild look called out, "How many fathom have you?" We told him to take his seat, and we would teach him, Mahomedan as he was, to fathom a bowl.