cool, elevated, thin.

He is the perfect master of the art of doing nothing. He never
reads, except the Bible; yet he is never bored. Often, I note him in
a deck-chair, studying his perfect finger-nails, and, I'll swear, not
seeing them at all. Miss West says he loves the sea. And I ask
myself a thousand times, "But how?" He shows no interest in any phase
of the sea. Although he called our attention to the glorious sunset
I have just described, he did not remain on deck to enjoy it. He sat
below, in the big leather chair, not reading, not dozing, but merely
gazing straight before him at nothing.


The days pass, and the seasons pass. We left Baltimore at the tail-
end of winter, went into spring and on through summer, and now we are
in fall weather and urging our way south to the winter of Cape Horn.
And as we double the Cape and proceed north, we shall go through
spring and summer--a long summer--pursuing the sun north through its
declination and arriving at Seattle in summer. And all these seasons
have occurred, and will have occurred, in the space of five months.

Our white ducks are gone, and, in south latitude thirty-five, we are
wearing the garments of a temperate clime. I notice that Wada has
given me heavier underclothes and heavier pyjamas, and that Possum,
of nights, is no longer content with the top of the bed but must
crawl underneath the bed-clothes.


We are now off the Plate, a region notorious for storms, and Mr. Pike
is on the lookout for a pampero. Captain West does not seem to be on