CHAPTER XVIII
THE COAST OF MISCHANCE
It was two days later that the Laminian swung in toward the coast of Locombia. Her rust-stained bow, under the lash of the sweeping trade-wind, lifted and dipped again in a sapphire-coloured sea streaked with yellow wind-rows of drift-weed. The hot sun blistered the painted woodwork; the air was like a back-draft from an opened furnace.
The wind freshened, as the day wore away, whipping spray along the bleached decks and humming through the tight-strung aerials at the masthead. It brought with it occasional driving showers that pelted on the sodden canvas and steaming woodwork.
McKinnon, in his cabin, laboured in vain over his tuning box and responder. He had held Ganley off for another few hours, hoping against hope that something might still be picked up. The gun-runner had not accepted this enforced delay with a good grace; there
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