istemper of the brain. It is in such halcyon days that we
begin to believe in paint. The decks are methodically chipped and
scraped of their corroding rust, ventilators are washed and painted,
and all the deck-houses are cleansed of a coating of coal-dust which
seems appalling. As the days drone by the filth disappears; pots of
red, white, brown, and black paint come out of the Mate's secret store
in the "fore-peak," and one hears satirical approval from those
below. "Like a little yacht, she is," says one, and the Second Mate is
asked if he has a R. Y. S. flag in the chart-room. I fear the wit who
called the engine-room a whited sepulchre had some smack of truth in
him. The Mate had given it an external coating of paint as white as
the driven snow, and it needed no heaven-sent seer to perceive that
within it was full of all uncleanness. But what would you? The engines
do not run of themselves, though to say so is one of the navigator's
few joys in a world of woe. The ship herself knows better, I think,
though perchance she is like us other mortals, and thinks her heart
best unattended, and sees no connection between the twenty-five tons
of coal she eats per day and the tiny clink which the speed recorder
gives every quarter of a mile on the poop. We below, at any rate, know
all this, for therein is the justification of our existence. And so
_our_ decorations must needs wait till we reach port, when the holds
are in travail and the winches scream out their agony to the bare
brown hills beyond the town and mingle with the deep, dull roar of the
surf on the barrier reef.

And now let me describe my day at sea, as well as I am able. Different
indeed from those I was wont to spend at home. No delicious hours
in our pet hostelries; no Sundays with music and an open window
looking out upon the river; no rollicking evenings in some dear old
tumble-down studio; no midnight rambles towards home down the Fulham
Road, where the ghostly women walk; no cosy talks round the fire when
the fog lies white against the glass, while the candle-light glows on
the tall, warm rose-wood book-case, and all is well with us. Nay, as
eight-bells strikes ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting, and the
hands of the clocks point to twelve midnight, I awake. Ten minutes
before, George the Fourth, of whom I may tell more anon, switches on
the light and punches me in the ribs. I turn over to sleep again,
while he rummages in his berth for soap, towel,