rd, I discarded my honourable
discomfort, my mask of grime, and my piratical appearance. The dealers
in Constantinople canaries and cork soles withdrew. About the harbour
of La Luz, the lights came out in the houses and aboard the shipping;
the masts and yards stood out calm against a quiet coloured evening, the
water rippled with no skirmish nor much voice to our sides. Beyond the
towns, the mountains gloomed with the dreams of romantic journeys.

An hour or so afterwards, the welcome though broken melody of the anchor's
uprising heralded our departure. It had been a colourable interlude. I
remember it best by a circular handed out by "Gumersindo Alejandro,
Bumboat Business." It ran through the rigmarole of desirable articles,
a few of which I have named above, and concluded

"and all kinds of silks suitable
for presents and use."

A harsh description of presents? Perhaps.

XXVIII

By some mystical means, the mates had charmed away from our Las Palmas
visitors at small cost or none an unusual supply of cigars and cigarettes.
These brightened up the melancholy purser, who was now approaching the
end of his employment. There were still, however, many things to amuse
his leisure. How often the table talk had come to the subject of hell and
its occupants! The latter seemed to be--after the landlubbers--shipowners,
ship's chandlers, ship's tailors, and Customs men. Curious pictures
were projected of notorious shipowners of the past, now compelled to
wield the shovel next to the firemen late of their employ. As to the
unfortunate Customs officials, witness A and B.

A. "... Yes, he quite got pally with this Customs fellow----?"

B (_older than A, hastily interrupting_): "I wouldn't trust any Customs
fellow, not if he'd got a pair of b---- wings on."

The _Optimist_ went on its way with the weeks. Mead added "The Vamp" to
his cabinet of tales of mystery; but the strain of discovering subjects
apart from the steward and the galley was clearly growing. The prominence
of food and meal times upon a tramp was described in a ballad published
about this time.

THOUGHTS OF A ROMANTIC.

Ten thousand miles from land are we,
Hark how the wild winds pipe!
What grand reflection swells in me?
This morning we'll have tripe.

For ever and evermore
These billows rage and swell;
O may I, through their angry roar,
Not miss