THE RED SEA 



sea, and the soft afterglow of the sky — and the 

 bugle summoning you to dress. That is a mean 

 job. Nothing could possibly swelter worse than 

 the tiny cabin. The electric fan is an aggravation. 

 You reappear in your fresh "whites" somewhat 

 warm and flustered in both mind and body. A turn 

 around the deck cools you off; and dinner restores 

 your equanimity — dinner with the soft, warm 

 tropic air breathing through all the wide-open ports; 

 the electric fans drumming busily; the men all in 

 clean white; the ladies, the very few precious ladies, 

 in soft, low gowns. After dinner the deck, as near 

 cool as it will be, and bare heads to the breeze of our 

 progress and glowing cigars. At ten or eleven 

 o'clock the groups begin to break up, the canvas 

 chairs to empty. Soon reappears a pajamaed figure 

 followed by a steward carrying a mattress. This is 

 spread, under its owner's direction, in a dark corner 

 forward. With a sigh you in your turn plunge down 

 into the sweltering inferno of your cabin, only to 

 reappear likewise with a steward and a mattress. 

 The latter, if you are wise, you spread where the 

 wind of the ship's going will be full upon you. It is 

 a strong wind and blows upon you heavily so that 

 the sleeves and legs of your pajamas flop, but it is a 

 soft, warm wind, and beats you as with muffled 

 fingers. In no temperate clime can you ever enjoy 



33 



