“Assuredly yes,” thought Robson. “I who am an old traveller know it. Before you again see England you, who are ‘green hands,’ will have seen and experienced what ‘roughing it’ really is, and you will be the stronger men for it; you who live through.” While the change of personal surroundings was being discussed and searching out men’s weaknesses, the _Neuralia_ was proceeding daily on her way—overjoying the men, in their idle hours, with the new scenes constantly presenting themselves, and stirring awake excited anticipation of the adventurous country to which they were going. [Sidenote: GIBRALTAR] The ship’s course—the war-time course—held south, well west of France and Spain and outside the Bay of Biscay. The first few days had been dull, for sea-sickness and strange quarters affect the best of spirits, but by the time the ship ran into Gibraltar, on the fourth day, everyone was about deck and cheerful. No shore leave was granted at “Gib.,” nor was there any real time for it. The ship lay off “the Rock” only a few hours—the time required to take off, from launches, a few troops for Malta and some fresh vegetables. From the sea the towering Rock looked magnificent—grave, strong-featured, impressive. From the ship’s side the eye could just discern the houses around the base of the promontory, clustered like molluscs on a rock, the white-bright dwellings of the inhabitants rising tier above tier from the water’s edge to the sheer rock face a little distance inland from shore. A few light sailing craft were dodging about in the foreground, out on their habitual occupation of the day, making pleasant pictures when they swept past with full white sail taut in the breeze. Alongside, a number of native row-boats, which had raced for the ship from shore as soon as it anchored, were doing thriving business in cigarettes, cigars, and tobacco, which gaily dressed Moors, and other low-caste tradesmen, were disposing of rapidly at their own figures to the improvident Tommies. Dear old Gib., so proudly British, to many it was the entrance to the promised land of adventure, and the portal of farewell to things that are near and dear to home. The ship sailed amid the gay raillery and cheers of Tommies to the barter-boats, but behind the laughter there lurked, perhaps, a tear, for this was the final, irrevocable, parting of the ways. The good ship was now in the Mediterranean Sea—fast bidding good-bye to Europe, and with Northern Africa distantly in sight, at times, on our starboard beam. It pleased many on board, at this stage, to get a hint of Africa’s vastness. Here were they sighting the Continent on the fifth day out from England, and yet they knew that they must have about twenty days of travel, hugging her shores, before they could reach their destination on the East Coast of that same continent.