THE ISLES OF THE INDIES 5 



times, but Wally had laughed at my superstition and fastened 

 the frame in its place. 



Both our bunks were surrounded with books wherever there 

 was space to place a rack to hold them. A glance at the volumes 

 showed a wide diversity of choice, a few volumes of poems, 

 a treatise or two on philosophy, a number of current novels, 

 a dozen or so biographies of ancient Romans, a pet subject of 

 mine, a few choice bits of literature and some others not so 

 studious. On Wally's side near the galley was a watertight rack 

 containing dozens of phonograph records, an assemblage pooled 

 from our separate collections, Wagner, Grieg, Puccini— and 

 Sibelius, whom Wally admired inordinately, and close by, the 

 phonograph which was again playing the majestic chords of 

 "Finlandia," for at least the eighth time since supper was put 

 on the table. 



Here in the narrow confines of our ship's'cabin were all the 

 necessities, both physical and mental, for an enjoyable existence 

 —dry bunks, a warm stove, tobacco, stores of food in the hold, 

 the choice of the world's most beautiful music imprisoned on 

 our records, good books— and an adventure looming ahead. 



It was the laboratory table, however, that was the key to the 

 entire picture. Our ship, the cabin, all centered about its ex- 

 istence. It was the working heart of the ship, the reason for its 

 being and the entire excuse of the expedition. 



All men have their dreams, their visions of affluence or even 

 affectation, their hopes of peace and security, of success and 

 ambition, some peculiar fantasy that each individual sets his 

 heart upon and pursues. These dreams are as varied as men 

 themselves and like the men that conjure them out of thin 

 emptiness or of need, they differ in intensity and substance. 

 Our entire cosmos is laid on the foundation stuff of men's 

 hopes and desires. So it was with our ship. 



