8 Mr. James Epps, Jun., on 
season, in Port of Spain, from, say, 70° at night to 90° in the 
daytime: these are extremes. 
A special train awaits the traveller at Waterloo Station, and 
in an hour and three quarters he is alongside the ship that is to 
carry him across the ocean. The afternoon is a busy one; every- 
body is fresh; the cabins have to be found, the luggage safely 
stowed away. Crowds of people are rushing about; very few 
know one another; everything appears in a state of chaos, when 
the first bell rings to prepare friends for a parting. This is soon 
followed by the second bell; many think it time to retire and so 
leave the ship, in order that they may get a prominent place on 
the quay to be able to shout their last ‘‘good-byes.” At last the 
third bell rings; this is final, and a general clearance is the 
result. ‘‘ Any more for shore?” calls the quartermaster. A few 
minutes’ grace, and all the visitors are off, and the few remaining 
Dock officers, who have been at work on the ship, are the last to 
leave. Then the captain calls from the bridge to “let go her 
headline,” and one is left to say ‘‘ good-bye,” and see as much of 
their friends as they can, in the few minutes left to them. 
We glide slowly and quietly down Southampton Water, and in 
about three hours we are dropping our pilot, just before reaching 
the Needles, and in half-an-hour more we are on the open sea. 
All the passengers sit down to dinner (at least the first night), 
the water being somewhat smoother then than on the following 
evenings. 
For the first few days, at this period of the year, the skies are 
grey, the air cold; very often the weather is wet and often 
stormy, therefore nothing can be done on deck, and the first 
few days appear somewhat long. 
Usually about a dozen gulls follow close behind the ship, 
watching eagerly for any food that may be thrown overboard. 
It is most wonderful to see them, in the face of a strong head 
wind, keeping pace with the ship, without once moving their 
fully expanded wings. Another little incident which breaks the 
monotony of the day is to watch the shoals of porpoises (Phocena 
communis), which will often run for miles alongside the ship, as 
if endeavouring to race it; at the same time leaping some three 
to four feet out of the water. Although hand-cameras are at 
once directed towards them and shutters snapped, I must say 
that I have not yet come across a satisfactory result. A full- 
grown porpoise varies considerably in length, say, from six to 
eight feet. Under the skin of the porpoise is a layer of white 
fat, which, when heated, is converted into oil of very fine quality. 
The skin when tanned is converted into a very tough leather. 
The teeth of a porpoise are closely set, are rather long, sharp, 
compressed, and multitudinous. There are seldom less than 
eighty, but in some specimens one hundred. 
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