l and
all is changed by magic. The air is hot and languid; the ship's company
down to the very scullions appear in immaculate white; the saloon chairs
and transoms even are put in white coverings; electric fans hum
everywhere; the run on lemon squashes begins; and many quaint and
curious customs of the tropics obtain.

For example: it is etiquette that before eight o'clock one may wander
the decks at will in one's pyjamas, converse affably with fair ladies in
pigtail and kimono, and be not abashed. But on the stroke of eight bells
it is also etiquette to disappear very promptly and to array one's self
for the day; and it is very improper indeed to see or be seen after that
hour in the rather extreme _negligee_ of the early morning. Also it
becomes the universal custom, or perhaps I should say the necessity, to
slumber for an hour after the noon meal. Certainly sleep descending on
the tropical traveller is armed with a bludgeon. Passengers, crew,
steerage, "deck," animal, and bird fall down then in an enchantment. I
have often wondered who navigates the ship during that sacred hour, or,
indeed, if anybody navigates it at all. Perhaps that time is sacred to
the genii of the old East, who close all prying mortal eyes, but in
return lend a guiding hand to the most pressing of mortal affairs. The
deck of the ship is a curious sight between the hours of half-past one
and three. The tropical siesta requires no couching of the form. You sit
down in your chair, with a book--you fade slowly into a deep, restful
slumber. And yet it is a slumber wherein certain small pleasant things
persist from the world outside. You remain dimly conscious of the
rhythmic throbbing of the engines, of the beat of soft, warm air on your
cheek.

At three o'clock or thereabout you rise as gently back to life, and sit
erect in your chair without a stretch or a yawn in your whole anatomy.
Then is the one time of day for a display of energy--if you have any to
display. Ship games, walks--fairly brisk--explorations to the
forecastle, a watch for flying fish or Arab dhows, anything until
tea-time. Then the glowing sunset; the opalescent sea, and the soft
afterglow of the sky--and the bugle summoning you to dress. That is a
mean job. Nothing could possibly swelter worse than the tiny cabin. The
electric fan is an aggravation. You reappear in your fresh "whites"
somewhat warm and flustered in both mind and body. A turn around the
deck cools you off; and di