About a quarter of a mile from the low lying, palm clad shore, the Catamaran was anchored.
There were not more than a dozen houses in the town.
These were supplemented by a quantity of huts.
A straggling building, dignified with the name of the Calabar Hotel, stood near the shore.
It was kept by a Frenchman, named Pierre Leronge, who came from Marseilles.
In him was a mixture of French and Italian blood.
He had been a desperado in his time, having to fly from his country.
As a criminal he had an extensive record.
Where he had settled down, being a deserter from a ship, the inhabitants were afraid of him.
Pierre Leronge was a noted man and a character not to be despised.
In addition to his caravanserai he had a large general store.
Natives from the interior did a large trade with him, and at least twice a month ships called and brought him supplies from Suez.
When Koosh came in to his cabin he was writing. Behind the pirate chief was Kassala.
“What is it to be?” asked the pirate; “life or death? You find that your case is hopeless.”
“How much do you want for my release?” Young Jack inquired.
The pirate mentioned a sum in an Arabic currency which amounted to one hundred thousand dollars.
He could give a check for the amount and not miss it at all.
His credit at a bank in Mecca was good for ten times the amount.
He had only to put his signature to a piece of printed paper, and the money required would be paid on sight to bearer.
These were the instructions he gave with his letters of credit.
He had made these arrangements because he fancied that he might want money when many miles away.
“No,” replied Koosh, firmly; “I cannot take less.”
“By the beard of the prophet, that is my ultimatum!”
Providing him with pen and ink, he was compelled to sign a draft for the sum mentioned.
Both of them, who were well known in Mecca, witnessed it, and Kassala undertook to go to the city and get it cashed.
The foremost with him was the wreck of the mail steamship.
A boat was lowered from the Catamaran, and Jack was rowed to the shore.
Glad indeed he was when he landed at Pilgrim’s Rest.
It was not the traveling season, and there were no people about except the residents.
Pierre Leronge, the landlord, was on the veranda, and received him cordially.