"Well?" said the youth, looking back as he was about to leave the cabin.

"Whatever you do, don't grow poetical about it. You know it is said
somewhere, that mischief is found for idle hands to do."

"All right, father. I'll keep clear of poetry--leave all that sort o'
nonsense to _you_. I'll--

"I'll flee Temptation's siren voice,
Throw poesy to the crows,
And let my soul's ethereal fire
Gush out in sober prose."

It need scarcely be said that our hero was not slow to take advantage of
the opportunity thus thrown in his way. He went off immediately through
the town, armed with the introduction of his father's well-known name,
and made inquiries of all sorts of people as to the nature, the
conditions, the facilities, and the prospects of travel in the Malay
Archipelago. In this quest he found himself sorely perplexed for the
very good reason that "all sorts" of people, having all sorts of ideas
and tastes, gave amazingly conflicting accounts of the region and its
attractions.

Wearied at last with his researches, he sauntered towards afternoon in
the direction of the port, and began in a listless sort of way to watch
the movements of a man who was busily engaged with a boat, as if he were
making preparations to put to sea.

Now, whatever philosophers may say to the contrary, we hold strongly to