undisturbed by the clamorous rumble of the outer world.

Two smaller islands appeared before the day was done, one to port so near that we could count the cottage windows and all but make out the features of skirt-blown peasant women standing firm-footed in deep green meadows against a background of dimming hills. As the night descended, the houses faded to twinkling lights, now in clusters, now a stone's-throw one from another, but not once failing as long as we remained on deck.

For two days following the horizon was unbroken. Then through the morning mists of June tenth rose Cabo San Vicente, the scowling granite corner-stone of Europe, every line of its time-scarred features a defiance to the sea and a menace to the passerby. Beyond stretched a wrinkled, verdureless plateau, to all appearances unpeopled, and falling into the Atlantic in grim, oxide-stained cliffs that here advanced within hailing distance, there retreated to the hazy horizon. All through the day the world's commerce filed past,--water-logged tramps crawling along the face of the land, whale-like oil tanks showing only a dorsal fin of funnel and deck-house, East Indiamen straining Biscayward, and all the smaller fry of fishermen and coasters. A rumor, rising no one knew where, promised that early morning should find us entering the Mediterranean. I subsidized the services of a fellow-voyager dexterous with shears and razor and, reduced to a tuft of forelock, descended once more to the lower dungeon.

Long before daylight I was awakened by the commissario, or steerage steward, tugging at a leg of my trousers and screeching in his boyish falsetto, "Gibiltèrra! Make ready! Gibiltèrra!" It was no part of the commissario's duties to call third-class passengers. But ever since the day he had examined my ticket, the little whisp of a man who never ceased to regard me with suspicion, as if he doubted the sanity of a traveler who was bound for a land that was neither Italy nor America. Of late he seemed convinced that my professed plan was merely a ruse to reach Naples without paying full fare, and he eyed me askance now as I clambered from my bunk, in his pigwidgeon face a stern determination that my knavery should not succeed.

Supplied with a bucket by a sailor, I climbed on deck and approached the galley. The cook was snoring in a corner of his domain; his understudy was nowhere to be seen. I tip-toed to the hot-water faucet and was soon below again stripping off my "ship's clothes," which the obliging seaman, having bespoken this reward, caught up one by one as they fell. The splashing of water aroused the encircling sleepers. Gradually they slid to the deck and gathered around me, inquiring the details of my eccentric plan. By the time I was dressed in the best my suitcase offered, every mortal in the "single" quarters had come at least once to bid me a dubious farewell.

The commissario returned and led the way in silence along the deserted promenade to the deck abaft the cabins. The Prinzessin lay at anchor. A half-mile away, across a placid lagoon, towered the haggard Rock of Gibraltar, a stone-faced city strewn along its base. About the harbor, glinting in the slanting sunlight, prowled rowboats, sloops, and yawls, and sharp-nosed launches. One of the latter soon swung in against the starboard ladder and there stepped on deck two men in white uniforms, who seated themselves without a word at a table which the commissario produced by some magic of his own, and fell to spreading out impressive documents. A glance sufficed to recognize them Englishmen. At length the older raised his head with an interrogatory jerk, and the commissario, with the air of a man taken red-handed in some rascality, minced forward and laid on the table a great legal blank with one line scrawled across it.

"T 'ird classy maneefesto, signori," he apologized.

"Eh!" cried the Englishman. "A steerage passenger for Gibraltar?"

The steward jerked his head backward toward me.

"Humph!" said the spokesman, inspecting me from crown to toe. "Where do you hail from?"

Before I could reply there swarmed down the companionway a host of cabin passengers, in port-of-call array, whom the Englishman greeted with bared head and his broadest welcome-to-our-city smile; then bowed to the launch ladder. As he resumed his chair I laid my passport before him.

"For what purpose do you desire to land in Gibraltar?" he demanded.

"I am bound for Spain--" I began.

"Spain!" shouted the Briton, with such emphasis as if that land lay at the far ends of the earth. "Indeed! Where are you going from Gibraltar, and how soon?"

"Until I get ashore I can hardly say; in a day or so, at least; to Granada, perhaps, or Málaga."

"Out of respect for the American passport," replied the Englishman grandiloquently, "I am going to let you land. But see you stick to this story."

I descended to the launch and ten minutes later landed with my haughty fellow-tourists at a bawling, tout-lined wharf. An officer peeped into my handbag, and I sauntered on through a fortress gate under which a sun-scorched Tommy Atkins marched unremittingly to and fro. Beyond, opened a narrow street, paralleling the harbor front and peopled even at this early hour with a mingling of races that gave to the scene the aspect of a temperate India, or a scoured and rebuilt Egypt. Sturdy British troopers in snug khaki and roof-like tropical helmets strode past; bare-legged Moors in flowing bournous stalked by in the widening streak of sunshine along the western walls; the tinkle of goat-bells mingled with the rhythmic cries of their drivers, offering a cup fresh-drawn to whomever possessed a copper; now an orange woman hobbled by, chanting her wares; everywhere flitted swarthy little men in misfit rags, with small baskets of immense strawberries which sold for a song to all but the tourists who tailed out behind me.

Suddenly, a furlong beyond the gate, a signboard flashed down upon me, and I turned instinctively in at the open door of the "Seaman's Institute." I found myself in a sort of restaurant, with here and there a pair of England's soldiers at table, and a towsled youth of darker tint hanging over the bar. I commanded ham and eggs; when they were served the youth dropped into the chair opposite and, leaning on his elbows, smiled speechlessly upon me, as if the sight of an unfamiliar face brought him extraordinary pleasure.

"Room to put me up?" I asked.

"Nothin' much else but room," sighed the youth, in the slurring speech of the Anglo-Spanish half-cast, "but the super 's not up yet, an' I 'm only the skittles."

I left my baggage in his keeping and, roaming on through the rapidly warming city to the Alameda Gardens, clambered away the day on the blistered face of the great Rock above.

The "super," a flabby-muscled tank of an Englishman, was lolling out the evening among his clients when I reëntered the Institute. My request for lodging roused him but momentarily from his lethargy.

"Sign off here?" he drawled.

"Left the Prinzessin this morning," I answered, suddenly reminded that I was no longer a seaman prepared to produce my discharge-book on demand.

"A.B., eh?"