e-boat was half-way on her errand of mercy. Young
Moxey was soon amongst us again, none the worse for his involuntary
immersion, although his bath was more than an ordinary risky one, owing
to the proximity of sharks.

From that exalted observatory, the mast head, we noticed the red colour
from which the sea derives its name. The surface has not a general ruddy
tinge, as we most of us thought it had,--only here and there blood-red
patches appear, mottling the vivid blue surface.

September 11th.--My "journal" is a blank for three whole days, owing to
the intense heat, which is simply unbearable. I can only give our
friends a faint idea of what it was like, by asking them to imagine
themselves strapped down over a heated oven whilst somebody has built a
fire on top of them, to ensure a judicious "browning" on both sides
alike. Sleep is out of the question, "prickly heat" is careful of that.
As may be supposed, the sufferings of the deck hands--bad enough as in
all conscience it was--were not to be compared with the tortures endured
by the poor fellows in the stoke-hole, who had to be hoisted up in
buckets that they might gasp in the scarcely less hot air on deck. From
bad, this state of things came to worse--men succumbed to its influence,
the sick list swelled, and, finally, death stalked insidiously in our
midst.

September 13th.--The first victim was John Bayley, a marine, who died
to-day after an illness of only a few short hours. One curious thing
about this sickness is that those attacked by it exhibit, more or less,
symptoms of madness. One of my own messmates, for instance, whose life
was preserved by a miracle, almost went entirely out of his mind. I will
not dwell too long upon these sufferings, nor rekindle the harrowing
scenes in your minds.

At sunset on the 14th the bell tolled for a funeral, as, with
half-masted flag, and officers and men assembled, we prepared to do the
last that ever poor Bayley would require from man. Funerals are solemn
things at any time, but a funeral at sea is more than this--it is
impressive and awe-inspiring, especially if there be others so near
death's door that one does not know whose turn it may be next. Decently
and in order the hammock-clad form is brought to the gangway, whilst the
chaplain's voice, clear and distinct--more distinct than ordinary it
seems--reads the beautiful service for the Church of England's dead. A
hollow plunge, a few eddying circles, at the words-