elbourne at daybreak on the morning of January 8th, 1889, and
before many of us had put in our appearance on deck, although we were
awakened long before by the cries of the sailors and the usual noise and
bustle that precedes the departure of a steamer from her dock in all
parts of the world. Long before we had left Port Melbourne out of sight,
however, we had assembled at the rail to wave our last adieus to the
many friends who had come down from Melbourne to see us off. The
"Salier" was a delightful vessel and one that was most comfortably
equipped, as are all of the vessels of this line, and the quarter deck,
with its open-windowed smoking and card-rooms, soon became the chosen
lounging place of the boys by day and the sleeping place of many of them
by night, they preferring to don pajamas anti sleep in the easy steamer
chairs rather than to seek the seclusion of the staterooms, which, as a
rule, were hot and sultry. Captain Tallenhorst, who commanded the
"Salier," was a fine fellow, and both he and his officers were inclined
to do pleasant one, and a pleasant one indeed it proved.

In the steerage we carried a mixed lot of emigrants from all sections of
the world, among them being Chinamen, Hindoos, Turks, Cingalese,
Italians and Germans, and to walk through their quarters and listen to
the strange languages that they spoke was to get a very good idea of the
confusion that must have reigned when the building of the tower of Babel
was in progress, and gave us at the same time a chance to study some of
the manners and customs of a people that were strange to us.

The meals that were served on board the "Salier" were an improvement on
those of the "Alameda," though we had found no fault with those given us
on the latter, but there was one drawback to our enjoyment of them,
however, and that was that the waiters spoke nothing but German, and
consequently those of us who were unfamiliar with the language had some
difficulty in making ourselves understood, our efforts to make known our
wants by the sign language often resulting in ludicrous blunders. Fred
Pfeffer was right at home, however, and as a result he managed to get
the best there was going, the waiters evidently mistaking him for
nothing less than a German Count, judging from the alacrity with which
they flew about to execute his orders. We had been out but a few short
hours before we began to miss Frank Lincoln, whose never-failing fund of
humor had helped to wh