the canvas, listening to the plaintive hiss of the ship's bow as it parted the turquoise sea into two widening simitars of curling foam. Cinders rained gently down on the slowly flapping awnings, on the bone-white deck boards steaming with sea-water sprayed from a leaking hose in a foolish effort to keep their cracks from widening, on the eddying and milk-white trail behind the threshing screw. From somewhere forward the bells sounded out, lazily, sadly, ghostlike, as though recording time in a world where all things slept. The ship's brasswork flashed and burned in the hot light. From the silence of the bow, at times, came the sound of a calling voice, mournful and measured. Naked-shouldered stokers, blanched and wet with sweat, crept out to the mid-deck rail and let the draft that alleyed along the companionways cool their moist skin. Now and then a flying-fish rose and circled away, off the bow, and fell shimmering back into the turquoise sea. Piloting the ship's cut water, ever raced and dodged a band of porpoises. Now and then a creeping dorsal fin cut the surface of the water and slunk away again. It seemed to impart something ominous and sinister to the unrelieved brilliance of the arching sky. It left the oily and unruffled sea menacing and cadaverous-like in its calm.
The ship crept on, the centre of its circle of
