By nine o'clock, when the sun had gathered considerable strength, the wind had practically died away, and the sea had resumed a smooth aspect save for a long, regular swell. Only a few ragged wisps of canvas and the now almost idle and ridiculously inadequate trysail remained as a reminder of the night of peril. In vain Mostyn looked for signs of land. Nothing was in sight save sea and sky. To make matters worse, the boat, which in that light breeze would have made about three knots under her mainsail, was now barely carrying steerage way. At that rate she might take weeks to fetch land--if she ever did so at all. Breakfast over--it was a more substantial meal than their previous ones in the boat--Mostyn set the lascars to work to rig up jury canvas. The damaged mizzen-sail, that had served as a tent, was pressed into service, together with the tarpaulin. These were "bonnetted" together, bent to the gaff, and sent aloft as a square sail, with the result that the boat's speed increased perceptibly. Yet there was still a great difference between her normal rate and that under the jury canvas. Smoking a cigarette after the meal, Peter let his thoughts run riot. He wondered what his parents were doing; whether they had had by this time any report of the _West Barbican_. If so, were they mourning him as dead? "Rather rough luck on them," soliloquized the youthful optimist; "but won't they be surprised when I roll up again?" Then his thoughts went to the Brocklington steel contract. He wondered whether the Kilba Protectorate officials had sent to Bulonga for the consignment. It seemed to him rather an idiotic thing to do, to have the stuff dumped down in that out-of-the-way hole, when the _West Barbican_ might, with equal facility, have delivered it at Pangawani. Perhaps, after all, it was for the best. The stuff might have gone down in the ship, in which case Captain Mostyn would be a ruined man. The mysterious loss of the _West Barbican_ had been a source of frequent perplexity to Peter. He was thinking about it now, trying to put forward a satisfactory theory as to the cause of the explosion. As far as he was aware there were no explosives on board, a consignment of gelignite, for use on the Rand, having been landed at Durban. His reveries were interrupted by one of the lascars shouting: "Sail on port bow, sahib!" Peter sat up. The foot of the improvised square sail intercepted the view for'ard. It was not until he made his way to the bows and stood upon the mast thwart that he saw the craft which the lascar had indicated.