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 picked them up and was about to descend from the poop when Paul ran to the foot of the steps and begged for a shower-bath. After glancing towards the old man, Otto obligingly emptied the buckets over the naked shoulders of his protégé. The water was colder than it looked. Paul gasped and cavorted about the broiling deck, leaving a trail and making a clumping noise with the slop-chest slippers into which his feet were thrust. Then he grabbed his basket, vaulted to Otto's shoulders, and was borne forward.

Dinner was not yet ready to be dished up, and to escape the heat of the galley Paul mounted the forecastle head to look for the sail which had been sighted during the morning. It was still on the horizon, gleaming like a tiny pearl. In the absence of a breeze, both ships were at the mercy of whatever current there might be. After weeks of isolation the prospect of passing another ship was of the essence of romance.

While serving dinner, Paul heard the captain report a change in the barometer that gave promise of a breeze, rather than a mere repetition of futile showers. And, by the time he had finished washing up, a ripple was passing like a film over the sapphire, broken by a million golden glints. The ship responded, and for a welcome change slid through the water, overtaking great opalescent jelly-fish—"Portuguese men-o'-war"—and leaving a little wake of bubbles astern. "About three knots," Paul estimated, as he leaned over the side and shook the crumbs from the tablecloth.

The sail locker was a most satisfactory retreat. It could be ventilated by two portholes, and the folds of canvas provided a safe, comfortable privacy in which to consume stolen fruits: tinned cherries and grapes and asparagus. All that was lacking was an adequate supply of books. The dog's-eared volumes from the mates' cabins were dismal fare, and the captain's