s. I don't suppose anything is
contemplated before nightfall at the earliest, and, as the troops are
scattered, it would only precipitate matters if I should have them
called in."

The last bale of goods was being unloaded from the steamer when they
reached the wharf. The captain and officers were smoking cigars against
the rail, and catching sight of Guy, the former called out:

"Don't forget now. Six o'clock sharp."

Guy nodded, and followed Melton to one side, where the two sat down on a
bale of cotton. Melton briefly explained how he came to be at Berbera.
After his return from Burma, he had been dispatched as war
correspondent of the London _Post_ to Suakim, which town was at that
time threatened by the Mahdi.

Mombagolo, or Momba as Melton now called him, had become his faithful
servant, and a week ago, the war-scare at Suakim having subsided, Melton
had come to Berbera to write up the great fair for his paper.

Then Guy, in his turn, simply stated that he had stopped off on his way
to India to execute a commission at Zaila. He made no reference to the
dispatches, feeling doubtful whether it would be proper or not, for a
government secret is a thing of weighty importance.

The conversation drifted to their perilous adventures in Burma, and the
time passed on unheeded.

At last Melton glanced up.

"Do you observe how quiet it is?" he exclaimed. "And look! There are but
few people in sight."

It was indeed quiet. A dead, oppressive calm had settled on the sea; not
a breeze rustled, not a ripple broke the glassy surface of the water,
and from the town, instead of the loud babel of cries, came only a low
murmur like a distant waterfall. A strange calm indeed, the calm that
serves as precursor to the unseen storm.

Suddenly, with startling abruptness, a rifle-shot broke the silence with
its shuddering echoes. Guy and Melton sprang to their feet. The
officers on the steamer crowded to the rail, up in the town dark figures
ran to and fro, a soldier in bright uniform was seen speeding toward the
garrison, and now plunging madly toward the wharf came a white clad
figure, pursued by a howling group of Somali warriors, who brandished
long spears and daggers. A shot from Melton's pistol brought them to a
sudden halt, and Momba, for it was indeed he, ran a few paces and fell
breathless at his master's feet.

"What fiendishness is this?" shouted the captain furiously, from the
deck of the steamer.

Momba stagger