fifty feet in length, with a beam of fifteen feet amidships. Tonnage would be about one hundred tons, her power is one Diesel engine, two mainsails and a jib but so far the sails have not been used. She is of no particular color, or ever has been, as far as I can see, as there are not even any remains of any paint job, but she is sturdy and very strongly built. If the reader knows what one of the Messick tugboats, which flit around New York harbor, looks like, and adds a fore and a main mast, there you have the Lochile, outwardly. Working from bow to stern along the deck, first one comes to a hatchway about two foot sx square; that is the entrance to our quarters, about six feet below the deck, and from our quarters there is a door leading into the galley which contains a kerosene [illegible] burning stove constantly in a state either of refusing entirely to light at all or else burning with such ferocity that we are in constant danger of being blown sky high. Back on deck again and moving aft, one comes to the main hatch, an opening in the deck perhaps nine or ten feet square; the hold is filled with cargo and on top of that hatch is the two tons of salt and four tons of ice that caused the trouble yesterday, so I cannot comment very much on the conditions in the hold, though I can well imagine them. Just after the main hatch there is the wheel house, which contains three bunks, and between the wheel house and the stern of the ship there is a space of about three or four feet. I do not know where the rest of the crew sleeps. The decks are piled high with cargo and one climbs over crates of oranges, bags of pumpkins and the four ton berg of ice in or- der to move from bow to stern; sedately and decently nesting on top of a large sack of potatoes are our three second-hand bicycles. The captain, a lad of perhaps thirty-five, named Bill Wallace, is from Portland, Oregon, strangely enough, and was in Tucson, Arizona, when we ran the 1940 Expedition to Tucson. He knows all the air crew and has met Dick Archbold. The cook, Terry, was born in Winnipeg but has taken out Philip- pine citizenship, deciding that only fools work and he can live comfortably in the islands without working. How he decides that cooking for eleven or twelve men in his minute galley escapes the name of work, I do not know. He rejoices in the possession of a new [illegible] coffee percolator and he and I have the same liking for that drink, which is considerably greater than that possessed by anybody else on board. Consequently, after meals, another coffee pot is made and shared by us both. A third member of the crew is a redheaded lad, an Australian. I don't know if he has a name and when I inquired was informed "We just call him Bluey." There is also Koko, spoken of yesterday, and two other men whose positions I do not know; I think they are both pas- sengers and one is leaving at Cooktown this evening. We have cruised all day about five miles offshore and were level with Mossman when we woke this morning. At first our only stop was to be Port- land Roads but the passenger and the additional cargo have made a Cooktown stop necessary. We should be there about 7 P.M. this evening but do not anticipate a long stay there. So far the engine, which was in something of a state of chaos yesterday, has pulled manfully and Bill Wallace seems an efficient engineer. Terry, the Canadian Philippine, does a good job of cooking and tells us he will be sorry for us when we get into the hands of Jetty Joe McLoughlin, our field cook. Maybe professional jealousy. The sea has been like a sheet of deep blue glass; what small wind there is is dead against us so sail has not yet been called into service. Just recently we passed under the loom of Mount Finnegan, which most likely will be our last camp on the way home; as with Bellenden Kerr, its summit was deep in mist and we shall know little of its difficulties until we encounter them, maybe in August or September.