naturally observed silence over my journalistic life of the remote
past, but one evening at the British Bar I was asked, was it not true
that I was a relation of Kipling? and at the Mission "your book" was
several times alluded to. It was, I think, taken for granted that being
a penman I should be _writing up_ my adventures, as though I were on
a voyage to Betelgueux or Sirius. I was asked to recite some of my poems,
also, by a lady, but I was churl enough to ask her pardon on that score.
She evidently felt this the basest ingratitude. "Why? Why not give us a
recitation? I'm sure you can." I tried to explain that my attempts were
frequently, almost invariably, of a meditative cast of mind, not suitable
for the platform. At this she sniffed and I felt that my explanation was
disgraceful in the highest degree.

Entertainment was not lacking there at the Mission. It was a hearty
place. One evening Tich, the pride of the _Bonadventure_, who in his
uniform cut a most splendid figure, went into the ring and laid about
him magnificently. Or there might be a concert, local talent obliging. A
passenger ship's varieties drew a large attendance both from the ships
and the shore; there was much funny man, much jazz band, much conjuring,
much sentimental singing--in fact plenty of everything which is expected
at popular concerts, and every one departed with reflected pride. Mead
and myself, however, quarrelled over the amount which I subscribed to
the whip-round. It was that or nothing--I had but one coin; and its
removal robbed us of our wonted refreshment. We walked somewhat moodily
down the road to the docks, unsoothed by their thick coarse greenery,
which the night filled with the incessant buzzing of crickets and a
loud piping whistle perhaps from a sort of cricket also, while here
and there a fire-fly went along with his glow-worm light.

We tried the cinematograph's recreations, once or twice. How strong is
habit! We could not settle down to these performances of single films;
nor to the box-like halls. A cowboy film of eight acts comes back to my
recollection from those evenings. It was full of miracles. The operator
believed, like the hero, in lightning speed. The hero on horseback was
far too speedy for the villain who dragged off the heroine into his car
and did his best to break records. These heroes will one day assume the
proportions, in the dark world, of the pleiosaurus in natural history.

But we had our reward. I