September the seventh was hot and steamy.  We had endless trouble getting ourselves and our baggage to the Bridge of Spain, where the Francisco Reyes was lying.  Great familiarity has since quite worn away the nervousness which we then felt on perceiving that our watches pointed to half an hour after starting time while we were yet adorning the front steps of the Exposition Building.  Local boats never leave on time.  From six hours to three days is a fair overtime allowance for them.

We finally arrived at the steamer in much agony and perspiration.  The old saying about bustle and confusion was applicable to the Francisco Reyes if one leaves out “bustle.”  There were no immediate signs of departure, but there were evidences of the eleven o’clock meal.  The muchachos were setting the table under an awning on the after-deck.  A hard-shell roll with a pallid centre, which tastes like “salt-rising” bread and which is locally known as bescocho, was at each plate together with the German silver knives and spoons.  The inevitable cheese was on hand, strongly barricaded in a crystal dish; and when I saw the tins of guava jelly and the bunch of bananas hanging from a stanchion, I had that dinner all mapped out.  I had no time, however, to speculate on its constituent elements, because my attention was attracted by the cloth with which the boy was polishing off dishes before he set them down.  This rag was of a fine, sooty-black color, and had a suggestion of oil about it as if it had been on duty in the engine-room.  The youth grew warm, and used it also to mop his perspiring countenance.  I ceased to inspect at that point, and went forward.

Several black and white kids of an inquisitive turn of mind were resting under my steamer chair, which had been sent on board the day before.  They seemed to feel some injury at being dispossessed.  I guessed at once that we carried no ice, and that the goats were a sea-faring conception of fresh meat.  As their numbers diminished daily, and as we enjoyed at least twice a day a steaming platter of meat, garbanzos, peppers, onions, and tomato sauce, I have seen no reason to change my opinion.

Passengers continued to arrive until nearly two o’clock.  There were one or two officers with their muchachos, and some twenty or more schoolteachers.  Six were women, and we found ourselves allotted the best there was.

We got away about three o’clock, and, after fouling a line over a row of cascos and threatening their destruction, sailed down the Pasig and out into the Bay, We passed Corregidor about sunset, met a heavy sea and stiff wind outside, and I retired from society.  This was Saturday night.  On Sunday noon we cast anchor in the lovely harbor of Romblon, and, defying sickness, I came on deck to admire.