One of the Arabs was swimming strongly, at the same time shouting to his compatriots on the nearest dhow. Two others were making slower progress for the reason that each was encumbered by supporting a disabled man. Without let or hindrance the escaped prisoners gained the dhow astern and were hauled upon deck. Then, putting her helm down, the succouring craft went about and headed for the open sea. "They've done us in the eye," declared Peter. "I'm rather glad," said Olive. "So am I in a way," agreed Mostyn. "Saved us a lot of trouble, handing 'em over, attending their trial, and all that sort of thing. But it's a bit of a mystery how they managed to break out of the ship." Leaving the lascar at the helm, Peter went below and examined the hatch of the after-hold. It was intact and secured. Raising it he peered below. The mystery was a mystery no longer. Unknown to him there were two square ports right aft and just above the waterline, which, when in harbour, were used to facilitate stowage of cargo. Seizing their opportunity, the prisoners had kept observation until they saw a friendly dhow within easy distance, and had made their escape through one of the ports. "And I'm also very glad," continued Peter, "that there's a gunboat within sight, otherwise we might have had to try conclusions with a dozen armed Arabs." He turned to the second lascar. "Hoist the pilot flag," he ordered. The pilot flag--S International--was quickly forthcoming. In the absence of a set of signal flags on board, Olive, under Peter's direction, had made the required flag out of some white linen and a square of blue cloth from the Arab skipper's wardrobe. The signal was answered with far greater dispatch than at Bulonga, and within half an hour the Pangawani pilot boat was alongside. "Hello!" was the greeting of the dapper clean-shaven official, as he came over the side and regarded with undisguised astonishment the bedraggled and somewhat battered crew of the dhow. "Hello! You look as if you've been in the wars. Where are you from?" Before Mostyn could reply Preston broke in: "Davis, old son!" he exclaimed. "Cut the cackle and get us in. I'm dying for a whisky and soda." "Great Scott!" ejaculated the pilot in astonishment. "Preston, by the powers! We heard that you were lost in the _West Barbican_." "All you hear isn't gospel, my bright youth," rejoined the Acting Chief sententiously, as he took a cigarette from the case offered by the port official. "Hardly expected to see you here, if it comes to that." "They transferred me from Zanzibar in November last," exclaimed Davis. "It's a move up. Here I'm practically my own boss." He walked towards the tiller, turned on his heel, and glanced shorewards. "You can tell your fellows to stow sail," he continued. "We'll tow you in." "By the by," inquired Peter. "What is the date? We seem to have lost count." "The eleventh of January," was the reply. CHAPTER XXXVI