22 
IN AFRICA 
The ship’s barber was the Associated Press of the 
ship’s company, and his shop was the Park Row of 
the vessel. He had plenty of things to talk about 
and more than enough words to express them. 
Every vague rumor that floated about was sure to 
find lodgment in the barber shop, just as a piece of 
driftwood finally reaches the beach. He knew all 
the secrets of the voyage and told them freely. 
One day I went down to have my hair trimmed. 
He asked if I’d have it done African style. “How’s 
that?” I inquired. “Shaved,” said he, and “No,” 
said I. A number of the Germans on board were 
adopting the African style of hair-cut, and the 
effect was something depressing. Every bump 
that had lain dormant under a mat of hair at once 
assumed startling proportions, and red ears that 
were retiring suddenly stuck out from the pale 
white scalp like immense flappers. A devotee of 
this school of tonsorial art had a peeled look that 
did not commend him to favorable mention in 
artistic circles. But the flies, they loved it, so it was 
an ill wind that blew no good. 
The Red Sea has a well-earned reputation of be¬ 
ing hot. We expected a certain amount of sultri¬ 
ness, but not in such lavish prodigality as it was de¬ 
livered. The first day out from Suez found the 
passengers peeling off unnecessary clothes, and the 
next day found the men sleeping out on deck. 
There wasn’t much sleeping. The band concert 
lasted until ten-thirty, then the three Germans who 
were trying to drink all the beer on board gave a 
