Dick Preston sturdily declined to go into hospital. Already he had arranged to share rooms with Peter at the Pangawani branch of the Imperial Mercantile Marine Club of which both officers were members.
Before Peter relinquished his command, certain formalities had to be gone through, amongst which was the examination of the vessel by the port officials.
The dhow's cargo was small and comparatively worthless. There were no papers to prove her identity or of where she came.
"What's in that chest, Mr. Mostyn?" inquired the official, pointing to the box containing the money, the lid of which Peter had nailed up. "Coin, eh? All right, we won't open it yet. I'll wait till we get it ashore, but I'll put a seal on it for our mutual safeguard.'"
In fact he affixed three seals bearing the impression of the arms of the Protectorate of Kilba.
"One more thing," continued the port official. "You'll have to make a declaration before the Head Commissioner. I'll come along with you. We may catch him before dinner."
"Not in these trousers," objected Mostyn, indicating his disreputable garments. "And I must go to the post office."
"Right-o," agreed the official cheerfully. "Nothing like killing three birds with one stone. You and I are about the same build. Let me fit you up. Comyn is my tally."
In a very short time obvious deficiencies in Peter's wardrobe were made good. Then, accompanied by his newly found friend and benefactor, he called in at the post office and dispatched a cablegram to his parents.
The message was characteristic of Mostyn. He did not believe in paying for two words when one would do, especially at the rates charged by the cable company. It was simply: "O.K. Peter".
Having discharged this act of filial duty, Mostyn suffered himself to be led into the presence of the Head Commissioner of the Kilba Protectorate, who happened to be on official duty at Pangawani.
With the Commissioner was the Director of Contracts. Both were under thirty-five years of age--Britons of the forceful and energetic type to which colonial development owes so much.
They were sitting at a large teak table littered with papers and documents. The Director of Contracts was reading a typed cablegram.
"Infernal cheek, Carr," he exclaimed to his colleague. "We've no use for cheap German stuff in the Protectorate. We'll turn it down."