feels definitely that one is in a strange, far country.  This is intensified by the fact that in these latitudes the moon, the great, glorious, calm tropical moon, is directly overhead—­follows the centre line of the zenith—­instead of being, as with us in our temperate zone, always more or less declined to the horizon.  This, too, lends the night an exotic quality, the more effective in that at first the reason for it is not apprehended.

A night in the tropics is always more or less broken.  One awakens, and sleeps again.  Motionless white-clad figures, cigarettes glowing, are lounging against the rail looking out over a molten sea.  The moonlight lies in patterns across the deck, shivering slightly under the throb of the engines, or occasionally swaying slowly forward or slowly back as the ship’s course changes, but otherwise motionless, for here the sea is always calm.  You raise your head, look about, sprawl in a new position on your mattress, fall asleep.  On one of these occasions you find unexpectedly that the velvet-gray night has become steel-gray dawn, and that the kindly old quartermaster is bending over you.  Sleepily, very sleepily, you stagger to your feet and collapse into the nearest chair.  Then to the swish of water, as the sailors sluice the decks all around and under you, you fall into a really deep sleep.

At six o’clock this is broken by chota-hazri, another tropical institution, consisting merely of clear tea and biscuits.  I never could get to care for it, but nowhere in the tropics could I head it off.  No matter how tired I was or how dead sleepy, I had to receive that confounded chota-hazri.  Throwing things at the native who brought it did no good at all.  He merely dodged.  Admonition did no good, nor prohibition in strong terms.  I was but one white man of the whole white race; and I had no right to possess idiosyncrasies running counter to dastur, the custom.  However, as the early hours are profitable hours in the tropics, it did not drive me to homicide.

The ship’s company now developed.  Our two prize members, fortunately for us, sat at our table.  The first was the Swedish professor aforementioned.  He was large, benign, paternal, broad in mind, thoroughly human and beloved, and yet profoundly erudite.  He was our iconoclast in the way of food; for he performed small but illuminating dissections on his plate, and announced triumphantly results that were not a bit in accordance with the menu.  A single bone was sufficient to take the pretension out of any fish.  Our other particular friend was C., with whom later we travelled in the interior of Africa.  C. is a very celebrated hunter and explorer, an old Africander, his face seamed and tanned by many years in a hard climate.  For several days we did not recognize him, although he sat fairly alongside, but put him down as a shy man, and let it go at that.  He never stayed for the long table d’hote dinners, but fell upon the first solid course and made