"To the left again!" We were in the gaping jaws of a sort of pocket, and it was too late to steer clear.
"Throw the anchor over!" I roared, "and let go everything." Will attended to the anchor.

Fred was too anxious for the safety of the only rifle to trust it out of hand, and he hesitated.

Georges Coutlass saved the day by letting go the shivering Syrian maid and slashing at the halyard with his knife.

Down came the great spar with a crash, and as the dhow swung round in answer to anchor and helm, Fred, Will and Brown, between them, contrived to save the sail, Brown complaining that we were the first sailors he ever heard of who did not have rum served them for working overtime in dirty weather.
So we lay, then, wallowing in the jaws of a crescent granite reef, and watched the red glow above the German launch move farther and farther away from us.

We waited there, wet and hungry, until dawn dimmed the flame from the burning roofs of Muanza, Lady Isobel Saffren Waldon loudly accusing us all at intervals of being rank incompetents unfit to be trusted with the lives of fish, and Coutlass afraid of nothing but interruption.