As we were seeing all this, Vesuvius was just behind and we were watching the clouds of sulphur and smoke rise from the crater.
Suddenly I was again awakened . . . There was a loud report and the car swayed from one side of the road to the other. We were punctured.
There was a knock at the door.
“If you please, sir, the Captain’s compliments, and he would like you to know there is unnecessary smoke”.
It was 12.30 and we had been mooning about in this hot, dry, dirty miserable hole of a place for nearly two hours, which took more energy out of us than a day’s walking at home.
Eight yards of bright red material, a pair of horns and a demon’s set of eyebrows, moustache and beard gave me a red rig from head to toe and in addition I carried a red pitchfork
. . . gave one of the native officials time to grab me by the arm and say, “Next boat!” I said, “No! No! My wife! My wife’s on board and I must go!”
As Mr. Clark from Christchurch remarked, “It was a competition in itself as to which one could wear the least and show the most.”