Nevertheless an unmistakable look of relief overspread his face as the Leading Gentleman replied with conviction, “We must eat....” and added, “This is but a dawn-breeze and will not take us half a mile”.

“Then let us eat forthwith,” said the one-eyed man, and he fairly beamed upon Moussa Isa, doubtless with the said light of which his body was full, in consequence of his singleness of vision.  The whole party was by this time awake and Moussa Isa the cynosure of neighbouring eyes.  The Leading Gentleman drew his beautiful knife from its tawdry sheath and gave it a last loving strop on his horny palm.

Willing hands dragged the head of Moussa Isa across the beam and willing bodies sat upon him, that he might not waste time, and something more precious, by thoughtless wriggling, delaying breakfast.  The Leading Gentleman crawled to an advantageous position, and having bowed in prayer, sawed away industriously.

Moussa Isa wished to shriek to him that he was a fool and a bungler; that throats were not to be cut in that fashion, with hackings and sawing at the gullet.  Knew the clumsy fumbler nothing of big blood-vessels?... but he could not speak.

“That is not the way,” said the benevolent-looking old Arab.  “Stab, man, stab under the ear—­don’t cut ... not there, anyhow.”

The Leading Gentleman tried the other side of the double-edged blade, continuing obstinately, and Moussa Isa contrived a strange sound which died away on a curious bubbling note and he grew faint.

Suddenly the one-eyed individual at the rudder screamed aloud, and disturbed the Leading Gentleman’s earnest endeavour to prevent waste.  Not from sensibility did the one-eyed scream, nor on account of his growing conviction that the Leading Gentleman was getting more than his share, but because, as all realized upon looking up, a great ship was bearing down upon them from the West.

So intent had all been upon the preparation of breakfast that the steamer was almost audible when seen.

Good!  Here came water, rice, bread, sugar, flour, and perhaps meat, for poor castaways, and probably money—­from kindly lady-passengers, this last, for the ship was obviously a liner.  The wretched Moussa Isa’s carcase was now superfluous—­nay dangerous, and must be disposed of at once, for Europeans are most kittle cattle.  They will exterminate your tribe with machine-guns, gin, small-pox, and still nastier things, but they are fearfully shocked at a bit of killing on the part of others.  They call it murder.  And though they will well-nigh depopulate a country themselves, they will wax highly indignant if any of the survivors do a little slaying, even if they kill but a miserable slave, like this Somali dog.

Heave him overboard.