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and the shadeless furnace outside) a single white man 

 sits or lies in pyjamas, trying at one time to pass the 

 time with some month-old papers or a much-worn 

 pack of patience cards, at another to imagine that he 

 is getting some sort of a siesta. 



Another day, another scene, but on the same 

 river and the same schooner, though now she is 

 moving slowly up-river, not however by means of 

 her sails. There is still not a breath of air, and all 

 her canvas, though hoisted in some vague hope 

 that it may sometime be of use, hangs motionless 

 and idle. It is the muscle of her crew which forms 

 her motive power; four of them are in the dingey 

 pulling at their oars for all they are worth, and just 

 helping the old boat to move along a little faster 

 than the tide. This they do for six-hour spells at a 

 time all through the day-time heat or the cooler 

 but damp and mist-laden air of the night, as long as 

 the tide is favourable, occasionally relieving the 

 monotony of their task with a monotonous sing-song 

 or snatch of weird whistling, whilst the sweat pours 

 off their shining naked bodies till one feels almost in- 

 clined to make sure that they have a baler on board. 

 Meanwhile the captain lolls at the helm, smoking or 

 half asleep, but giving just enough attention to keep 

 his vessel's head more or less up-stream and to avoid 

 any outlying mangrove-snag or half-stranded palm- 

 trunk, floated down from higher up, which may pre- 

 sent itself if his course happens to take him near 

 either shore. This will go on till the tide turns and 

 makes it useless to try to make headway, when the 

 anchor will be dropped and the crew turn to for 

 " chop" and another six-hour rest till the flow begins 



