The man wore a look of sullen
surprise, which Desmond cheerfully ignored.
"Now, Fuzl Khan," he said, "we are running into Bombay harbor. You know
the channel?"
The man grunted a surly affirmative.
"Well, you will take the helm, and steer us in to the most convenient
moorings."
He turned away, smiling at the look of utter consternation on the
Gujarati's face. To be trusted after his treacherous conduct was
evidently more than the man could understand. The easy unconcern with
which Desmond walked away had its effect on the crew. When orders were
given to take in sail they carried them out with promptitude, and Desmond
chuckled as he saw them talking to one another in low tones and
discussing him, as he guessed by their glances in his direction.
The Gujarati performed his work at the helm skilfully, and about five
o'clock, when the sun was setting, casting a romantic glow over the long
straggling settlement, the Tremukji ran to her anchorage among a host of
small craft, within a few cable lengths of the vessels of Admiral
Watson's squadron, which had arrived from Madras a few weeks before.
Chapter 17: In which our hero finds himself among friends;
and Colonel Clive prepares to astonish Angria.
The entrance of a strange grab had not passed unnoticed. Before the
anchor had been dropped, the harbor master put off in a toni.
"What grab is that?" he shouted in Urdu, as he came alongside.
"The Tremukji, sir," replied Desmond in English.
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