"You'll have to be jolly careful how you approach Pangawani Harbour, old son," cautioned Preston for the twentieth time. "For goodness sake don't put the old hooker on the bar and kipper the show." "I don't intend to," replied the cautious Peter. "The Arab chart isn't much good. It's on too small a scale. I'll bring up and signal for a pilot, unless there's another vessel making the port. If so, I'll follow her in." As ill luck would have it the wind dropped about midday, and Mostyn had the mortification of seeing the entrance to Pangawani Harbour at less than five miles away, without being able to gain a hundred yards through the water. At times the dhow was appreciably drifting away from the desired haven. Until close on sunset she was becalmed. Then a stiff off-shore breeze sprang up. There was no help for it. Throughout the night the dhow was under way close hauled, passing and repassing the entrance without being able to cross the bar. Even after the wind had freed her, Peter would not have risked the intricate entrance in the darkness. So, with the roar of the surf borne to his ears, Peter kept watch during the darkness, until dawn revealed the fact that the dhow was immediately abreast of and less than a mile from the actual fairway. Yet the harbour was denied him. The sea breeze gave place to another calm, and it was not until the sun was high in the heavens that the customary onshore wind began to make itself felt. There were other craft making the harbour. Several dhows were in sight, their crews, tired of waiting for the breeze, laboriously sweeping the ponderous craft. Farther away was a gunboat, her white-painted sides looking strangely unfamiliar to people accustomed to the "battleship grey" of warships in home waters. "She's down from Zanzibar," declared Preston. "She's got a soft job nowadays, but those fellows had a sticky time when I was on the coast. No, I don't think she's coming in here, otherwise we might have had a tow in." The dhow was now gathering way under the fair breeze. A cable's length astern was another dhow, the crew of which had just relinquished their sweeps and were preparing to hoist sail. Mostyn noticed that the white-robed skipper was intently watching him, and that the curiosity was shared by the rest of the Arab crew. "P'raps he recognizes the old hooker," he remarked to Olive, who was standing with him on the poop. "He'll be puzzling his brains to know what we're doing on board." Even as he spoke a distinct splash astern attracted his attention. Stepping aft he was just in time to see a brown figure diving into the water in the wake of another who was swimming a good ten feet beneath the surface. Then there was another splash and the performance was repeated. "By Jove!" exclaimed Mostyn. "We've been done. Our prisoners are escaping." "Have escaped," corrected Olive as five heads, appeared above the surface.