Fun with Mr. Woermann_]

[Drawing: _An African Hair-Cut_]

The ship's barber was the Associated Press of the ship's company, and
his shop was the Park Row of the vessel. He had plenty of things to talk
about and more than enough words to express them. Every vague rumor that
floated about was sure to find lodgment in the barber shop, just as a
piece of driftwood finally reaches the beach. He knew all the secrets of
the voyage and told them freely.

One day I went down to have my hair trimmed. He asked if I'd have it
done African style. "How's that?" I inquired. "Shaved," said he, and
"No," said I. A number of the Germans on board were adopting the African
style of hair-cut, and the effect was something depressing. Every bump
that had lain dormant under a mat of hair at once assumed startling
proportions, and red ears that were retiring suddenly stuck out from the
pale white scalp like immense flappers. A devotee of this school of
tonsorial art had a peeled look that did not commend him to favorable
mention in artistic circles. But the flies, they loved it, so it was an
ill wind that blew no good.

The Red Sea has a well-earned reputation of being hot. We expected a
certain amount of sultriness, but not in such lavish prodigality as it
was delivered. The first day out from Suez found the passengers peeling
off unnecessary clothes, and the next day found the men sleeping out on
deck. There wasn't much sleeping. The band concert lasted until
ten-thirty, then the three Germans who were trying to drink all the beer
on board gave a nightly saengerfest that lasted until one o'clock, and
then the men who wash down the decks appeared at four. Between one and
four it was too hot to sleep, so that there wasn't much restful repose
on the ship until we got out of the Red Sea.

[Drawing: _We Slept on Deck in the Red Sea_]

Down at the end of the Red Sea are the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. In the
middle of the straits is the island of Perim, a sun-baked, bare and
uninviting chunk of land that has great strategic value and little else.
It absolutely commands the entrance to the Red Sea, and, naturally, is
British. Nearly all strategic points in the East are British, from
Gibraltar to Singapore. A lighthouse, a signal station, and a small
detachment of troops are the sole points of interest in Perim, and as
one rides past one breathes a fervent prayer of thanksgiving that he is
not one of the summer colony on Perim.

They tell a fu