"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.

"She has a way with her with natives," said the senior officer present.

"It's a pity," said Monty. "I mean, one scarcely likes to use this
wharf and watch that."

"Quite so. Yet we daren't accord her official recognition. She'd be
certain to make capital out of it. We're awfully glad she's going.