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night early in January Paul kept an independent watch on the house deck, perched on the gunwale of a spare lifeboat. He would have preferred his favourite daytime seat on the anchor, but there was a rule against distracting the attention of the lookout. Despite a moderate fair breeze, the heat generated during the day still enveloped the ship. It was as though the gloom of the Indian Ocean were made of warm, impalpable wool. Some of the men had brought their bedding out on the hatches. Paul could not sleep when there was a prospect of a light being sighted before dawn.

To think that the goal was less than a hundred miles distant, that with daylight the outlines of a new coast should be visible! The antipodes—the other side of the world! And only a year or two ago, it had been difficult to grasp the conception that people in these latitudes did not feel like flies walking on a ceiling!

On and on, with never a sign of lagging provided there was the ghost of a breeze to support her—good old Clytemnestra! A little weary, perhaps, but it was not her fault if barnacles thickened on her hull. Perhaps she was looking forward to the prospect of drydock as eagerly as any of her thoughtless crew looked forward to a fried egg and a pint of bitters in a pub.

After nearly four months of unbroken horizons, the thought of the coming day was overpoweringly sweet. Rh