In ordinary circumstances it was customary for the ship to wireless her agents, asking them to make arrangements for a pilot; but, since there were no agents at Bulonga, nor even a wireless station, that procedure was put out of court. There remained only the old-time flag signal to summon a pilot from shore. "No sign yet, sir," replied the officer of the watch. He had been scanning the shore through a telescope until his eyes smarted. The glare form those "tin" huts seemed to be reflected through the lenses of the telescope to his optic nerve. He was literally seeing red. "All asleep, I suppose," commented the Old Man. "It beats me why we've been ordered to this rotten hole. Try 'em with the siren, Mr. Anstey." The echoes of the powerful whistle had hardly died away when a hoist of bunting rose slowly in the humid air. Until a faint zephyr caught the flags it was impossible for the _West Barbican_ to understand the import of the signal. "FWE," sang out Anstey. "That reports that there's not enough water on the bar, sir." "Not enough fiddlesticks!" snapped the Old Man. "It's within half an hour of high water. We'll lose the flood if they don't get busy. Besides, how the blazes do they know our draught? For two pins I'd take her in myself." No doubt the skipper, with the aid of chart, compass, and lead-line, could have navigated the ship across the bar with complete success. He had worked his way into uncharted harbours before to-day. But should the vessel ground he would be in a very difficult position with the Board of Trade. Even if he were successful in getting the ship safely alongside the quay there might be trouble with the Portuguese officials for not complying with the port regulations. "That chap who wrote something about those serving who only stand and wait didn't know much about the tides," fumed the Old Man. "Here's the blessed tide serving, but it won't stand and it won't wait, and time's precious." Nevertheless the skipper had to wait, impatiently and irritably, until such times as the easy-going officials sent out a pilot. It was more than an hour later before a white motor-boat with an awning fore and aft was seen approaching the ship. As the boat drew nearer its ugliness became apparent. The paint was dirty, and in places rubbed away to the bare planking. The awning had seen better days, and had been roughly patched in a dozen places. A couple of coir fenders trailed drunkenly over the side, while the painter was dragging through the water. The motor was wheezing like a worn-out animal and emitting smoke from numerous leaky joints, while the clutch, slipping badly, was rasping like a rusty file.