C H A P T E R X X V I
THE POMP OF TR A V E L
I "'HE steamer to Bassein is due at Maubin at half-
J - past one o’clock in the morning. At two, I walk
down to the wharf, a cloudy moon overhead. In the
porch a crowd of people lies asleep. A little farther,
on the open planking of the wharf my baggage is
piled. Beyond, there spreads the silent river. For
half an hour I wait here, my eyes fixed on the dark
bend of the river down-stream, and looking every
moment for the flare of the coming searchlight. Yet
I look in vain. It is now three hours after midnioght,
and all the world lies in the shadow of sleep. As I
pass my hand over the railings of the wharf it grows
wet with the fallen dew. Sleep cries out in my bones.
At four, and at last, the steamer comes. The wharf
becomes alive with the awakened people; but the
silence of night still broods insistently upon all things.
The steamer comes slowly alongside, gliding and
sidling up to the wharf, and the voice of her muffled
engines is like the low bubbling purr of a hungry
panther. You have heard it in the jungle? As she
touches, the tired skipper, under the glare of the