“South 70° E., sir, weather’s a bit sulky and inclined to dirt before daylight, I should think. Lot of ships about. Bishop² bore N. 20° W. fifteen miles off at eight bells (4 a.m.). Good morning.” And as he uttered the last words the second officer of the Kafirstan, 10,000-ton cargo³ steamer, London to Boston, U.S., swung his burly form down the lee-bridge ladder, and the darkness swallowed him up. The chief, who had just relieved him, mumbled⁴ out “G’mornin’” in the midst of a cavernous yawn, not because he was churlish or out of humour, but for the reason that be a man never so seasoned, the sudden transition from the cosy⁵ recesses⁶ of a warm bunk⁷ and sweet sleep to a narrow platform some forty feet above the sea, fully⁸ exposed to the wrathful edge of a winter gale⁹ at four o’clock in the morning, does not predispose him to cheerful conversation, or indeed any other of the amenities¹⁰ of life, until the wonderful adaptability¹¹ of the human body has had time to adjust itself to the altered conditions.