really not uncomfortable, and it seemed restful to the mind. As I used to be sitting on deck every one who came across me would say, "Wet, isn't it? Well, you see this is the wet season on the Coast"—or, "Damp, isn't it? Well, you see this is the wet season on the Coast"—and then they went away, and, I believe slept for hours exhausted by their educational efforts. After this they would come on deck and sit in their respective chairs, smoking, save that irrepressible deaf gentleman, who spent his time squirrel like between vivid activity and complete quiescence. You might pass the smoking room door and observe the soles of his shoes sticking out off the end of the settee with an air of perfect restful calm hovering over them, as if the owner were hibernating for the next six months. Within two minutes after this an uproar on the poop would inform the experienced ear that he was up and about again, and had found some one asleep on a chair and attacked him. It was during one of these days, furnishing reminiscences of Noah's flood, that conversation turned suddenly on Driver ants. One of the silent men, who had been sitting for an hour or so, with a countenance indicative of a contemplative acceptance of the penitential psalms, roused by one of the deaf man's rows, observed, "Paraffin is good for Driver ants." "Oh," said the deaf gentleman as he sat suddenly down on my ink-pot, which, for my convenience, was on a chair, "you wait till you get them up your legs, or sit down among them, as I saw Smith, when he was tired clearing bush. They took the tire out of him, he live for scratch one time. Smith was a pocket circus. You should have seen him get clear of his divided skirt. Oh lor! what price paraffin?"
The conversation on the Driver ant now became general.
