“I can see the smoke of the German launch now!  Don’t you all see it?  Straight ahead beyond the smoke of the dhow!  They’ve burned the dhow and steamed away!  I’ll bet you a million pounds they’ve killed everybody—­shot ’em, or burned ’em alive, or drowned ’em!”

“Did you hear me tell you to sit down?  I’ll tip you overboard and make you swim for shore—­d’ye see those crocodiles?  Ugh!  Look at the brutes!  In you go among the crocks if you don’t sit down at once!”

Coutlass took no notice of the threat, but rocked the canoe recklessly as he stood on tiptoe.

“Think of their gall!  By Bacchus, they’re steaming for British East!  I bet you five million pounds to a kick they think they’ve drowned the lot of us!  They’re going to steam in and report the accident!”

We got him to sit down at last by ordering the paddlers nearest him to throw him overboard, but nothing would stop his evil croaking any more than flat refusal to admit the truth of what he gloated over lessened our real conviction.

Long before we reached the dhow there was no room left for unbelief.  The stern planks were charred, but stood erect, unburned yet, and the blue and white paint smeared on them was surely that of the Queen of Sheba.  When we came within fifty yards the water was full of loathsome reptiles; our paddles actually struck them as they swarmed after the prey, snapping at one another and at our canoes—­long, slimy-looking monsters, as able to smell carrion in the distance as kites are to see.

There were garments on the water—­blankets—­and one soaked, torn, lacy thing that certainly had been a woman’s.  More than a dozen crocodiles fought around that.  We tried to go close enough to see whether there were dead bodies in the dhow’s charred hull, but as if the very ripple from our paddles were the last straw, the wreck dipped suddenly ten feet from us and plunged, the crocodiles following it down into deep water with lashing tails—­swifter than fish.

We paddled about for an hour in the blistering sun, searching stupidly for what we knew we could never find; crocodiles remove traces of identity more swiftly than kites and crows.

“I’ll bet you they thought we were on board!” gleed Coutlass.  “I’ll bet you they opened fire, and when we didn’t answer came to the conclusion we had no ammunition.  Then they steamed close enough to throw kerosene on board and light it!  I bet you they steamed round and round and watched the people jump as the flames drove them overboard!  Or d’you think they shot them all, and then threw them overboard and fired the dhow?  No—­then they’d have known we weren’t on the dhow; they’d have steamed back then to find us; they thought we were in the dhow!” They thought we were hiding below deck!  They’re going to British East to take their Bible oaths they saw us burn and drown!  Isn’t that a joke!  Isn’t that a good one!  Gassharamminy!  But I’d give my hope of heaven to know whether they shot the women first or watched them jump among the crocodiles when the heat grew fierce!”