steerage, "deck," animal, and bird fall down then in an enchantment. I
have often wondered who navigates the ship during that sacred hour, or,
indeed, if anybody navigates it at all. Perhaps that time is sacred to
the genii of the old East, who close all prying mortal eyes, but in
return lend a guiding hand to the most pressing of mortal affairs. The
deck of the ship is a curious sight between the hours of half-past one
and three. The tropical siesta requires no couching of the form. You sit
down in your chair, with a book--you fade slowly into a deep, restful
slumber. And yet it is a slumber wherein certain small pleasant things
persist from the world outside. You remain dimly conscious of the
rhythmic throbbing of the engines, of the beat of soft, warm air on your
cheek.

At three o'clock or thereabout you rise as gently back to life, and sit
erect in your chair without a stretch or a yawn in your whole anatomy.
Then is the one time of day for a display of energy--if you have any to
display. Ship games, walks--fairly brisk--explorations to the
forecastle, a watch for flying fish or Arab dhows, anything until
tea-time. Then the glowing sunset; the opalescent 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 heads bare 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 pyjamaed