The wet season is very disagreeable. The rain falls in streams, and, as Miss Kingsley says, “does not go into details with drops.” There are several torrential downpours each day and night. In the intervals during the day the sky is swept clear of clouds and the sun shines the strongest. The atmosphere is extremely humid and sultry. With the least exertion, or with no exertion, one perspires profusely, and there is no evaporation. One ought to change his clothing several times a day; but most of us cannot afford to devote so much time to comfort. Frequent tornadoes often cool the air in the evening. The most uncomfortable of all places during the rain is on shipboard. The rain will at length find its way through any thickness of awning, and the delightful deck must be deserted for the stifling saloon. Our paradise is transformed to a purgatory. The rain is accompanied by a heavy mist and as it dashes upon the surface of the sea it lifts a cloud of spray that hides the water beneath and we seem to be drifting courseless through cloudland, with our horizon immediately around us. As it continues day after day everybody becomes depressed; and as for the captain, it is scarcely safe to speak to him. One day when I was travelling in the wet season, the captain lost a whole day prowling up and down the coast looking for a place which was completely hidden in the rain and mist. He was angry; and an angry captain is a fearsome object. He is accustomed to being obeyed, and is master of everything else but the fourth element, which occasionally thwarts his plans and derides his authority. At a moment when the rain slackened from a torrent to a heavy shower, a passenger put his head out on deck and remarked: “It’s not raining, Captain.” “Well, if that is not rain,” thundered the disgusted captain, “it is the best imitation of rain that I have ever seen.”