THE RED SEA. 43 



lounging against the rail looking out over a 

 molten sea. The moonlight lies in patterns 

 across the deck, shivering slightly under the 

 throb of the engines, or occasionally swaying 

 slowly forward or slowly back as the ship's 

 course changes, but otherwise motionless, for 

 here the sea is always calm. You raise your 

 head, look about, sprawl in a new position on 

 your mattress, fall asleep. On one of these 

 occasions you find unexpectedly that the velvet- 

 gray night has become steel-gray dawn, and 

 that the kindly old quarter-master is bending 

 over you. Sleepily, very sleepily, you stagger 

 to your feet and collapse into the nearest chair. 

 Then to the swish of water, as the sailors sluice 

 the decks all around and under you, you fall 

 into a really deep sleep. 



At six o'clock this is broken by chota-hazri, 

 another tropical institution, consisting merely of 

 clear tea and biscuits. I never could get to 

 care for it, but nowhere in the tropics could I 

 head it off. No matter how tired I was or how 

 dead sleepy, I had to receive that confounded 

 chota-hazri. Throwing things at the native 

 who brought it did no good at all. He merely 

 dodged. Admonition did no good, nor prohi- 

 bition in strong terms. I was but one white 



