“It takes a lot more than a mere nigger, with his head in clouts, to scare me,” said Kettle truculently, “and I don’t care tuppence what he may be by trade.  He’s got a down on me at present, I’ll grant, but I’m going to give Mr. Rad el Moussa fits a little later on, and you may stand by and look on, if you aren’t frightened to be near him.”

“I’m not a funk in the open,” grumbled Murray, “and you know it.  You’ve seen me handle a crew.  But I’m in a kind of cellar here, and can’t get out, and if anybody chooses they can drop bricks on me, and I can’t stop them.  Have they been at you about those rifles, sir?”

“What rifles?  No, nobody’s said ‘rifles’ to me ashore here.”

“It seems we’ve got some cases of rifles on board for one of those little ports up the coast.  I didn’t know it.”

“Nor did I,” said Kettle, “and you can take it from me that we haven’t.  Smuggling rifles ashore is a big offence here in the Persian Gulf, and I’m not going to put myself in the way of the law, if I know it.”

“Well, I think you’re wrong, sir,” said the Mate.  “I believe they’re in some cases that are down on the manifest as ‘machinery.’  I saw them stowed down No. 3 hold, and I remember one of the stevedores in London joking about them when they were struck below.”

“Supposing they were rifles, what than?”

“Rad wants them.  He says they’re consigned to some of his neighbors up coast, who’ll raid him as soon as they’re properly armed; and he doesn’t like the idea.  What raiding’s done, he likes to do himself, and at the same time he much prefers good Brummagen rifles to the local ironmonger’s blunderbusses.”

“Well,” said Kettle, “I’m waiting to hear what he thought you could do with the rifles supposing they were on board.”

“Oh, he expected me to broach cargo and bring them here ashore to him.  He’s a simple-minded savage.”

“By James!” said Kettle, “the man’s mad.  What did he think I should be doing whilst one of my mates was scoffing cargo under my blessed nose?”

“Ah, you see,” said the foggy voice, with sly malice, “he did not know you so well then, sir.  That was before he persuaded you to come into his house to stay with him.”

It is probable that Captain Kettle would have found occasion to make acid comment on this repartee from his inferior officer, but at that moment another voice addressed him from the slit at the other side of his prison, and he turned sharply round.  To his surprise this new person spoke in very tolerable English.

“Capt’n, I want t’make contrack wid you.”

“The deuce you do.  And who might you be, anyway?”

“I cullud gen’lem’n, sar.  Born Zanzibar.  Used to be fireman on P. and O. I want arsk you—­”

“Is this the Arabian Nights?  How the mischief did you get here, anyway?”

“Went on burst in Aden, sar.  Th’ole Chief fired me out.  Went Yemen.  Caught for slave.  Taken caravan.  Brought here.  But I’m very clever gen’lem’n, sar, an’ soon bought myself free.  Got slave of my own now.  An’ three wives.  Bought ’nother wife yesterday.”