166 WHALING AND BEAR-HUNTING 



brown oxen of the carros I go wading through them, leaving 

 dark tracks where the little polished pebbles of the cobbled 

 road show through the violet. 



I tried tunny-fishing off Madeira on several occasions. 

 Perhaps this is a subject more suitable to introduce in a 

 whaler's log than descriptions of flowers and canaries. 



On one occasion I persuaded a hotel visitor to accompany 

 me, with a crew of Portuguese. 



The tunny, or tuna, is a mackerel ; there are several kinds. 

 Those I saw ran from about twenty pounds to three hundred 

 pounds. 



You have to start before daybreak for the fishing from 

 Madeira, which is apt to put off intending tunny-fishers, but 

 " 41," as I shall call my friend at Reid's Hotel, after the 

 number of his room, agreed to risk the briny and an early 

 rise I doubt if he will do it again blue Atlantic rollers 

 and a sub-tropical sun are somewhat trying. 



Here are notes from my sketch-book of our day's pro- 

 ceedings, begun, I may inform the sympathetic reader, in 

 the Palace Hotel before daylight. 



. . . All is still it is only three hours past midnight, 

 the people in this caravanserai are all asleep we alone are 

 awake in the great empty dining-room the night waiter 

 and the writer the writer cross and thirsting for an early 

 cup of tea the night porter does not understand this, but 

 he comes from Las Palmas, that is all I can learn from him. 

 He is limp of figure and has black eyes and hair and his 

 sallow face only expresses dull resignation and an unfulfilled 

 desire for sleep in a corner : he is young, but I think no smile 

 has ever passed over his chilly countenance in this life. He 

 does not even move a feature or express the least remorse 

 when I tell him it was No. 41, not 49, he should have awakened 

 fancy " 49's " feelings ! so, to make sure, we go together and 

 pull out No. 41 " 41," in pyjamas, and red-eyed, seems to 

 have forgotten altogether that he was to go fishing with me. 

 Fishing at ten P.M., with a pipe and a grog, and fishing at 



1 These carros are the cabs of Funchal, like four-poster beds, brilliantly 

 painted, with chintz hangings, and sledge runners instead of wheels. 

 Their progress is like that of a crab neither fast nor certain. 



