A Zanzibari native was "tending" the engine, and a half-caste Portuguese was at the wheel. In the stern-sheets was a short and very stout man puffing at an enormous cigar. He wore a dirty white uniform with a lavish display of tarnished gilt braid, while set at an angle on his bushy hair was a peaked cap with the Mozambique arms. "Goo' mornin', Senhor Capitano!" he exclaimed, when the boat ranged awkwardly alongside. "Me pilot. Get you in in shake o' brace--no--brace o' shake." Still puffing his cigar the Portuguese pilot came over the side and waddled on to the bridge. "Vat you draw?" he inquired. The Old Man gave him the ship's draught. "Ver' mooch," rejoined the pilot, shrugging his shoulders. "Tide go. Why you no call me before?" But get her in he did, although the propeller was throwing up muddy sand and the keel plates were slithering over the bottom. Half an hour later the _West Barbican_ was berthed alongside the quay--a dilapidated structure partly stone and partly timber, with rusty bollards that, judging by their appearance, had not made the acquaintance of mooring-ropes for months. Clearly the maritime activities of Bulonga were largely dormant. Presently--there was no hurry, everything at Bulonga being done on the "do it to-morrow" principle--the Customs officers came on board. They were bilious-looking rascals, whose broad hints for "palm-oil" were as plain as the fellaheen demanding baksheesh. To them the task of searching for dutiable goods was of secondary importance. From one of them, who spoke English passably, Captain Bullock elicited the information that there was no British agent in the place; neither was there telegraphic, telephonic, nor railway communication with anywhere. Once a week a small steamer brought up outside the bar for the purpose of collecting and delivering mails and parcels. When the weather was rough, or the bar impassable, the inhabitants of Bulonga had to wait another week, perhaps two, for news of the outside world. "We'll have to hand over the steelwork to some one, Preston," observed the Old Man. "We can't dump it on the quay and leave it to rot. Nip ashore and see if there's a fairly reliable storekeeper who will freeze on to the stuff till it's wanted. We'll need a covered store at least a hundred and twenty feet in length." The Acting Chief returned on board with the information that there was a suitable place, and only one. The owner, a timber exporter and importer, had gone home, and no one knew when he was likely to return. He lived at a place called Duelha, about seven or eight miles up the river that empties itself into the shallow Bulonga Harbour, and he was in the habit of journeying to and fro by means of a motor-boat.