It took over an hour to tow the "Fortuna" back to the gare, where we made fast and took steps to clear the propeller. Unwilling to unpack the diving-dresses, the bos'n got hold of some Arabs and explained to them in dumb show that something had fouled the propeller. Showing their white teeth in a broad grin that expressed that they had grasped the situation, two of the Arabs threw off their scanty clothing and dived beneath the yacht's counter.
For nearly a minute they remained beneath the surface, but, on reappearing, they made signs that a rope had wound itself round the screw; though, in spite of the bos'n's gesticulations, the Arabs refused to dive again, jabbering away in a language that was, of course, totally unintelligible to us.
At that moment a stout, big-built man, dressed in a blue surcoat and trousers and wearing a scarlet tarbouch, appeared on the scene, riding a small and miserably lean donkey and attended by two barefooted runners. Sliding awkwardly to the ground, he waddled to the edge of the Canal, and, addressing us in French, asked what had gone amiss.
The bos'n began to explain the situation, and at the same time the Arabs appealed to him; with the utmost capacity of their voices.
"It's one of the native officials of the Canal," explained the quartermaster, who had had previous experience of the East.
"Ask him to come aboard," said Uncle Herbert, and, stepping awkwardly into the gig, he was rowed alongside. Puffing and blowing like a grampus, he gained the deck, and after a few words with the Arabs he turned to my father.
"They want to be paid in advance," he explained in French, a language which the pater readily understood. "They are asking a hundred piastres (slightly over one pound) to clear the propeller, as they say the rope is wound round as hard as iron."
"Tell them that they will be paid directly they have finished the job," said my father resolutely, his Cornish determination beginning to assert itself, "or else I'll send our own divers down."
"Offer the old sinner five piastres for himself, sir," said the quartermaster in a stage aside. "He is not above taking baksheesh, I'll allow."
My father took the hint, and the Gippy jumped at the bait, for, seizing a stout stick which one of his attendants carried, he chased the Arabs over the side, belabouring and reviling them with all the energy at his command. This done, he waddled breathlessly to a deck-chair, and, seating himself, demanded the promised guerdon.