as big as a door plate--"Harbour Police"--threw duck fists over what he
called overloading the boat. He knew very little about boats, but threw
very competent duck fists. As we did know something about boats, we
braved unknown consequences by disregarding him utterly. No consequences
ensued--unless perhaps to his own health. When everything was aboard,
that dhow was pretty well down, but still well afloat. Then we white men
took our places in the launch.

This was a long narrow affair with a four-cylinder thirty-horsepower
engine. As she possessed no speed gears, she had either to plunge ahead
full speed or come to a stop; there were no compromises. Her steering
was managed by a tiller instead of a wheel, so that a mere touch
sufficed to swerve her ten feet from her course. As the dhow was in no
respects built on such nervous lines, she did occasionally some fancy
and splashing curves.

The pilot of the launch turned out to be a sandy-haired Yankee who had
been catching wild animals for Barnum and Bailey's circus. While waiting
for his ship, he, being a proverbial handy Yankee, had taken on this
job. He became quite interested in telling us this, and at times forgot
his duties at the tiller. Then that racing-launch would take a wild
swoop; the clumsy old dhow astern would try vainly, with much spray and
dangerous careening, to follow; the compromise course would all but
upset her; the spray would fly; the safari boys would take their
ducking; the boat boys would yell and dance and lean frantically against
the two long sweeps with which they tried to steer. In this wild and
untrammelled fashion we careered up the bay, too interested in our own
performances to pay much attention to the scenery. The low shores, with
their cocoanut groves gracefully rising above the mangrove tangle,
slipped by, and the distant blue Shimba Hills came nearer.