the route—I inspected the chart with great dis-approval.
It was 4 a.m. next morning when we anchored at the wharf at Penankbar—or some such name—on the Brisbane River, and I at once took train for Brisbane for a few hours, there to do some necessary shopping, and to buy new pillows and pillow-cases. The pillows I carried in triumph in my arms on board the Stettin, thinking some one would see the point and take the hint. They did not, however, and were quite indifferent. At 3 p.m. we were off again, and it was goodbye to Australia. The Customs House Officer who boarded us was dead drunk, insisted on lunching with us, drank King Peter's beer, and wanted to save us all trouble in that way. The Germans were maliciously amused with him, but I resented him and literally drove him ashore.
It was, and is, very hot even under the awning, and, clad in white duck clothes, we all lie in long chairs, have countless cool drinks, and I listen to many yarns. The Germans are for ever im gewohnten Tropenschläfchen versunken, but I am not of the sleeping kind, so frequently stir them up. I have big ears, which is the reason, I suppose, people will pour all their confidences into them. Luckily I like to hear what people have to say about themselves—if they be not bores—for every one has something in him of interest, and I have no disdain for all the little vanities and feeblenesses which make people human. When the Captain, or Captain Koch, the Danish pilot, or the other officers come off duty and clean up, they generally make for me with a Wie gehts—furchtbar heiz, nicht wahr? and stretch themselves alongside and become full of reminiscences about the Happy Fatherland and the cool beer in this or that Keller in bygone
