Their invariable habit, the instant the view-halloa is raised, is to scamper headlong, pounce on the victim and pull him apart (or so it feels) until fortune, superior strength, or some such element decides the point; and then more often than not it is the victim’s fate to be carried between two men, each hold of a thigh, each determined to get ashore or to the boat first, and each grimly resolved not to let go until three times the proper fee shall have been paid.  Of only these two things let the passenger assure himself—­fight how he may, he will neither escape their clutches nor get wet.  Rather they will hold him upside-down until the contents of his pockets fall into the surf.  Dry on the beach or into the boat they will dump him.  And whatever he shall pay them will surely be insufficient.

But we had a privy councilor of England of our party, and favors were shown us that never fall to the lot of ordinary travelers.  Opposite the Sultan’s palace is the Sultan’s private wharf, so royal and private that it is a prison offense to trespass on it without written permission.  Because of his official call at the Residency, and of his card left on the Sultan, wires had been pulled, and a pompous individual whose black face sweated greasily, and whose palm itched for unearned increment, called on Monty very shortly after breakfast with intimation that the wharf had been placed at our disposal, since His Highness the Sultan desired to do us honor.

So when the B. I. steamer dropped anchor in the great roadstead shortly after noon we were taken to the wharf by one of the Sultan’s household—­a very civil-spoken Arab gentleman—­and three English officers met us there who made a fuss over Monty and were at pains to be agreeable to the rest of us.  While we stood chatting and waiting for the boat that should row us and belongings the mile-and-a-half or so to the steamer, I saw something that made me start.  Fred gazed presently in the same direction.

“Johnson is number one!” he said, as if checking off my mental processes.  He meant Hassan.  “Number two is Georges Coutlass, our friend the Greek.  Number three is—­am I drunk this early in the day?—­what do you see?—­doesn’t she look to you like?—­by the big blind god of men’s mistakes it’s—­Monty!  Didums, you deaf idiot, look!  See!”

At that everybody naturally looked the same way.  Everybody nodded.  Coutlass the Greek, and Hassan, reputed nephew of Tippoo Tib, were headed in one boat toward the steamer, the worse for the handling, but right side up and no angrier than the usual passenger.  Following them was another boat containing a motley assortment of Arabs and part-Arabs, who might, or might not be associated with them.

On the beach still, surrounded yet by a swarm of longshoremen who yelled and fought, Lady Isobel Saffren Waldon and her Syrian maid stood at bay.  Her two Swahili men-servants were overwhelmed and already being carried to a boat.  Her luggage was being borne helter-skelter after them, and another boat waited for her just beyond the belt of surf, the rowers standing up to yell encouragement at the sweating pack that dared not close in on its victims.  Lady Isobel Saffren Waldon appeared to have no other weapon than a parasol, but she had plainly the upper hand.