The steamer is quickly surrounded. A few steam-launches, heavily awninged, screech their whistles; while a crowd of small boats manned by coal-black Somali boys, each striving to be the first upon the scene, crowd upon us. They are boatmen, divers, and sellers of curiosities—smart, bright little fellows, more than half nude, and as black as coal, many with their hair left long like the cords of a Russian poodle. Such a screaming and a yelling! Such a diving after small coins! Such a display of leopard-skins, antelope-horns, especially those of the lovely oryx, and ostrich-feathers, products of the opposite coast! A few dull austere Indians and Cingalese display embroideries and table-cloths, but the heat seems to depress them, just as it does the buyers. [Illustration: TOMB AND MOSQUE OF SHEIKH OTHMAN, NEAR ADEN.] It is a wonderful sight to watch the divers, balanced on the gunwales of the boats, their hands above their heads, watching eagerly for the tiny splash of a small coin, then breaking the water into a series of dancing circles as their dusky bodies disappear into the transparent blue. One can see them too under water, turning like fishes in search of the slowly sinking money. When the excitement had worn off, and those passengers who cared to brave the sun’s terrific rays by taking a short run ashore had left, I hailed a boy, who, with the aid of Abdurrahman, my ever-faithful Arab servant from Morocco, stowed my luggage into the boat. Then I said good-bye to the P. and O. steamer, and was rowed ashore. [Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF ADEN AND ITS SURROUNDINGS To Illustrate Mr. W. B. Harris’ “A Journey through the Yemen” W. & A. K. Johnston. Edinburgh & London.] At some steps leading to a galvanised-iron-roofed landing-place I stepped ashore. What a scene of desolation and dreariness Aden presents to the new-comer! and how soon one gets to like the place in spite of it all! A background of dreary blackish rock, a sandy road, half-a-dozen rickety _gharies_ under the shelter of a hideous iron-roofing, with sleepy little ponies and still more sleepy Somali drivers; a whitewashed domed saint’s tomb, with an apology for a garden on each side, in which a few weary-looking plants were trying to appear green under a thick coating of dust and a sweltering sun; a long crescent of badly built houses, with the exception of the handsome Aden Bank buildings, faced by an expanse of sand and black palings,—and that is Steamer Point, as one first sees it. But as the sun sinks low a figure or two appear, and toward sunset the place wears a gay and flourishing appearance.