So we decided after a council of war to put the helm over and sail almost due westward, hoping to meet with an island where we might stop for a few days, catch fish and dry them, and caulk the leaky dhow, without the risk of letting the Germans know our whereabouts.

(It is a peculiar fact that whatever the native secret system of transferring messages may be, it does not work across water.) Not all the little gods of Africa were fighting for the Germans, although it began to seem so.

An hour after putting up the helm we sighted a school of hippopotami--fifty at least, and for half a day we chased them, Fred trying to shoot one until Will and I objected to further waste of ammunition.

A dead hippo would have provided us with meat enough for a month for the whole ship's company.

We could have towed the carcass ashore somewhere and dried the meat in slabs.