At Thursday Island we were both prostrated by a sharp attack of fever. This was the first time it had seized me since I came to New Guinea, and it is not unusual when a man has been living in the wilds for some time, and has escaped malaria, that he falls a victim to it almost as soon as he returns to comparative civilisation and better food. In spite of this drawback, we were successful in getting our collections despatched, and at 8 P.M., on the 23rd of May, on a dark, dirty, and very gusty night, with a nasty sea running, we left Thursday Island, and steered our course for Hall Sound. In the vicinity of Bramble Cay—a dangerous sandbank, about 160 miles from Yule Island—we had our sails blown away, and were left in an almost helpless condition, only two small sails remaining. For the three following days we beat about in a heavy sea, not knowing exactly where we were, for we had not been able to take an observation since we left. On the evening of Friday the 29th May we managed to get under the shelter of Yule Island, inside the reef, and into smoother water. This was fortunate, for that night it blew a hurricane, and there was a heavy sea, even where we were lying. When daylight broke we went on, and anchored off the mission station at Yule Island, whence we sent word to Port Moresby by whaleboat that, owing to our disabled condition, it would be impossible for us to go there to clear, for the Customs regulations are that all vessels crossing to New Guinea must clear at Port Moresby, Samurai, or Daru. Of course, we could not beat up to Port Moresby against the S.E. monsoon without sails, so we lay there five days, until the whaleboat returned with our clearance. Our stay was anything but pleasant, for we had to remain on board the small ketch under a blazing sun, as we were unable to land until we got our clearance from the Customs. There was, however, one remarkable diversion during this weary time of waiting; for on our arrival we found, to our surprise, a large iron sailing-ship at anchor in the sound—certainly the largest vessel that ever entered it. She proved to be the _W. C. Watjen_, a German barque that had gone through a terrible experience in the very centre of the typhoon, the tail of which had given us so much trouble. I made friends with the captain—a hero in his way—who, without being aware of what an extraordinary feat of seamanship he had performed, told me in the quietest possible manner one of the most wonderful tales of the sea it has ever been my lot to hear. It was indeed, in many particulars, almost an exact parallel to Mr. Conrad’s remarkable story, “Typhoon.” [Illustration: 1.—LOW TIDE AT HANUABADA, SHOWING THE PILE-BUILT HOUSES. 2.—SIMILAR HOUSES FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. ]