s entrance into the tropics, he had been more than hot, he
had been always steaming. There was an almost perceptible mist about
him. His visage possessed not the adust scorch of the major's; his was
a moist heat; his cheeks were constantly par-boiling in their own
perspiration. He was a meet _croupier_ for our host.

Ranged on each side of this noble pair were the long lines of very pale
and anxious faces (I really must except my own, for my face never looked
anxious till I thought of marrying, or pale till I took to scribbling),
the possessors of which were experiencing a little the torment of
Tantalus. The palisades, those graves of sand, turned into a rich
compost by the ever-recurring burial, were directly under the windows,
and the land-breeze came over them, chill and dank, in palpable
currents, through the jalousies, into the heated room; and, had one
thrust his head into the moonlight and looked beneath, he would have
seen hundreds of the shell-clad vampires, upon their long and contorted
legs, moving hideously round, and scrambling horribly over newly-made
mounds, each of which contained the still fresh corpse of a warrior, or
of the land, or of the ocean. In a small way, your land-crab is a most
indefatigable resurrectionist. But there is retribution for their
villany. They get eaten in their turn. Delicate feeding they are,
doubtlessly; and there can be no matter of question, but that, at that
memorable dinner a double banquet was going on, upon a most excellent
principle of reciprocity. The epicure crab was feeding upon the dish,
man, below--whilst epicure man was feeding upon the dished-up crab
above. True, the guests knew it not; I mean those who did not wear
testaceous armour: the gentlemen in the coats of mail knew very well
what they were about. It was, at the time of which I am speaking, a
standing joke to make Johnny Newcome eat land-crab disguised in some
savoury dish. Thank God, that was more than a quarter of a century ago.
We trust that the social qualities and the culinary refinements of the
West Indians do not now march _a l'ecrevisse_ and progress _a reculons_.

There we all sat, prudence coqueting with appetite, and the finest
yellow curries contending with the direst thoughts of yellow fever.
Ever and anon some amiable youth would dash off a bumper of claret with
an air of desperate bravery, and then turn pale at the idea of his own
temerity. The most cautious were Scotch assista