The Cruise of the Violetta

IN the Fall of the year when Krakatoa blew its head off in the East Indies, and sent its dust around the world, I fell sick of a fever in the city of Portate, which is on the west coast of South America. Portate had the latest brand of municipal enterprise and the oldest brand of fever. But they call any kind of sickness a fever there, to save trouble, and bury the alien with as little trouble as possible. I started for home, and came as far as Nassau, which is a town in the Bahamas. There, a wasted and dismal shape, I somehow fell into the hands of one Dr. Ulswater, who tended and medicined by back into the world of sunlight and other interesting objects.

Nassau runs up the side of a bluff and overlooks a blue and dimpled harbour. Dr. Ulswater at last began to take me with him, to lie on the rocks and watch him search in the harbour shoals for small cuttlefish. He used a three-pronged spear to stir them out of their lairs, and a long knife to put into their vital points with skilful surgery. They waved and slapped their wild blistered arms around his neck and shoulders, while he poked placidly into their vitality. So, being entertained and happy, I recovered from yellow fever.