in an old indecent anecdote got no welcome; nobody answered.  The poor man hadn’t wit enough to see that he had blundered, but asked his question again.  Again there was no response.  It was embarrassing for him.  In his confusion he chose the wrong course, did the wrong thing—­began the anecdote.  Began it in a deep and hostile stillness, where had been such life and stir and warm comradeship before.  He delivered himself of the brief details of the diary’s first day, and did it with some confidence and a fair degree of eagerness.  It fell flat.  There was an awkward pause.  The two rows of men sat like statues.  There was no movement, no sound.  He had to go on; there was no other way, at least none that an animal of his calibre could think of.  At the close of each day’s diary, the same dismal silence followed.  When at last he finished his tale and sprung the indelicate surprise which is wont to fetch a crash of laughter, not a ripple of sound resulted.  It was as if the tale had been told to dead men.  After what seemed a long, long time, somebody sighed, somebody else stirred in his seat; presently, the men dropped into a low murmur of confidential talk, each with his neighbor, and the incident was closed.  There were indications that that man was fond of his anecdote; that it was his pet, his standby, his shot that never missed, his reputation-maker.  But he will never tell it again.  No doubt he will think of it sometimes, for that cannot well be helped; and then he will see a picture, and always the same picture—­the double rank of dead men; the vacant deck stretching away in dimming perspective beyond them, the wide desert of smooth sea all abroad; the rim of the moon spying from behind a rag of black cloud; the remote top of the mizzenmast shearing a zigzag path through the fields of stars in the deeps of space; and this soft picture will remind him of the time that he sat in the midst of it and told his poor little tale and felt so lonesome when he got through.

Fifty Indians and Chinamen asleep in a big tent in the waist of the ship forward; they lie side by side with no space between; the former wrapped up, head and all, as in the Indian streets, the Chinamen uncovered; the lamp and things for opium smoking in the center.

A passenger said it was ten 2-ton truck loads of dynamite that lately exploded at Johannesburg.  Hundreds killed; he doesn’t know how many; limbs picked up for miles around.  Glass shattered, and roofs swept away or collapsed 200 yards off; fragment of iron flung three and a half miles.

It occurred at 3 p.m.; at 6, L65,000 had been subscribed.  When this passenger left, L35,000 had been voted by city and state governments and L100,000 by citizens and business corporations.  When news of the disaster was telephoned to the Exchange L35,000 were subscribed in the first five minutes.  Subscribing was still going on when he left; the papers had ceased the names, only the amounts—­too many names; not enough room.  L100,000 subscribed by companies and citizens; if this is true, it must be what they call in Australia “a record”—­the biggest instance of a spontaneous outpour for charity in history, considering the size of the population it was drawn from, $8 or $10 for each white resident, babies at the breast included.