"I'll signal the first old hooker we fall in with and get her to give us a tow," he decided. "Not much chance of sighting a vessel off Pangawani, is there?" asked Mostyn. "You never know your luck," quoted the Old Man sententiously, as he stared apprehensively at the storm clouds banking up to wind'ard. A few minutes later the skipper of the S.S. _Quilboma_ underwent another change of character. He blew the whistle of the engine-room voice-tube. "How goes it, Jackson? Last shovelful out of the bunker? How are you off for oil? Yes, any sort. Fair amount--good. Well, stand by: I'll fix you up." The threatening storm had completely roused the Old Man to definite, practical action. He surpassed himself, and, incidentally, surprised himself and others into the bargain. Shouting to some of the hands he ordered them to bring axes and to smash up one of the quarter-boats. "Don't stand there lookin' into the air," he bawled angrily. "Lay aft and do what you're told. I know what I'm doin'. Carve up that blank boat and pass the dunnage down to the stokehold, and be mighty slick about it." The men, realizing the object of what had previously seemed to be a wanton act of destruction, set to work with a will. In a very few minutes the quarter-davits on the port side were looking very gaunt and forlorn, while a good five hundredweights of wood soaked in crude oil helped to feed the ravenous furnaces. Half an hour later another boat shared the fate of the first, while, in addition, the crew collected various inflammable gear and passed it below, where sweating firemen threw the impromptu fuel into the furnaces. Bales of cotton waste soaked in oil were added to leaven the whole lump, until the _Quilboma's_ stumpy, salt-rimed funnel threw out volumes of smoke that spread for miles astern like a grimy, evil-smelling pall. The _Quilboma_ was now within sight of her goal. Broad on the port bow could be discerned the long, low beach fringed with a quavering line of milk-white foam and backed by the waving coco-palms and the picturesque bungalows of Kilba's principal port. "How long will that little lot last you, Mr. Jackson?" inquired the Old Man per voice-tube. "Forty minutes? Ay, I'll see to that." He pointed to one of the lifeboats. The deck-hands, grasping the significance of this display of dumb-show, threw themselves upon the boat. Axes gleamed and fell with a succession of mingled thuds and crashes. Planks, timbers, knees, breast-hooks, thwarts, masts, and oars--all went below to the still insatiable maw of the devouring element. The skipper of the _Quilboma_ made no attempt to signal for a pilot. For one reason, he knew the dangerous entrance intimately; for another, it was doubtful whether the pilot could come out and board the vessel. Yet another: the ship could not afford to wait, with her steam pressure falling and the storm perilously close. "Starboard--meet her--at that--steady!"