So, as I say, we kept afloat and glided on. The days
melting themselves together to that degree, that I could hardly believe
my ears when I asked "How many now, Miss?" and she answered "Seven."
To be sure, poor Mr. Pordage had, by about now, got his Diplomatic coat
into such a state as never was seen. What with the mud of the river,
what with the water of the river, what with the sun, and the dews, and
the tearing boughs, and the thickets, it hung about him in discoloured
shreds like a mop. The sun had touched him a bit. He had taken to
always polishing one particular button, which just held on to his left
wrist, and to always calling for stationery. I suppose that man called
for pens, ink, and paper, tape, and scaling-wax, upwards of one thousand
times in four-and-twenty hours. He had an idea that we should never get
out of that river unless we were written out of it in a formal
Memorandum; and the more we laboured at navigating the rafts, the more he
ordered us not to touch them at our peril, and the more he sat and roared
for stationery.
Mrs. Pordage, similarly, persisted in wearing her nightcap. I doubt if
any one but ourselves who had seen the progress of that article of dress,
could by this time have told what it was meant for.
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