|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 20
And so we held on, gliding with the stream. It drove us to this
bank, and it drove us to that bank, and it turned us, and whirled
us; but yet it carried us on. Sometimes much too slowly; sometimes
much too fast, but yet it carried us on.
My little deaf and dumb boy slumbered a good deal now, and that was
the case with all the children. They caused very little trouble to
any one. They seemed, in my eyes, to get more like one another, not
only in quiet manner, but in the face, too. The motion of the raft
was usually so much the same, the scene was usually so much the
same, the sound of the soft wash and ripple of the water was usually
so much the same, that they were made drowsy, as they might have
been by the constant playing of one tune. Even on the grown people,
who worked hard and felt anxiety, the same things produced something
of the same effect. Every day was so like the other, that I soon
lost count of the days, myself, and had to ask Miss Maryon, for
instance, whether this was the third or fourth? Miss Maryon had a
pocket-book and pencil, and she kept the log; that is to say, she
entered up a clear little journal of the time, and of the distances
our seamen thought we had made, each night.
So, as I say, we kept afloat and glided on. All day long, and every
day, the water, and the woods, and sky; all day long, and every day,
the constant watching of both sides of the river, and far a-head at
every bold turn and sweep it made, for any signs of Pirate-boats, or
Pirate-dwellings. 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. It
had got so limp and ragged that she couldn't see out of her eyes for
it. It was so dirty, that whether it was vegetable matter out of a
swamp, or weeds out of the river, or an old porter's-knot from
England, I don't think any new spectator could have said. Yet, this
unfortunate old woman had a notion that it was not only vastly
genteel, but that it was the correct thing as to propriety. And she
really did carry herself over the other ladies who had no nightcaps,
and who were forced to tie up their hair how they could, in a
superior manner that was perfectly amazing.
I don't know what she looked like, sitting in that blessed nightcap,
on a log of wood, outside the hut or cabin upon our raft. She would
have rather resembled a fortune-teller in one of the picture-books
that used to be in the shop windows in my boyhood, except for her
stateliness. But, Lord bless my heart, the dignity with which she
sat and moped, with her head in that bundle of tatters, was like
nothing else in the world! She was not on speaking terms with more
than three of the ladies. Some of them had, what she called, "taken
precedence" of her--in getting into, or out of, that miserable
little shelter!--and others had not called to pay their respects, or
something of that kind. So, there she sat, in her own state and
ceremony, while her husband sat on the same log of wood, ordering us
one and all to let the raft go to the bottom, and to bring him
stationery.
What with this noise on the part of Mr. Commissioner Pordage, and
what with the cries of Sergeant Drooce on the raft astern (which
were sometimes more than Tom Packer could silence), we often made
our slow way down the river, anything but quietly. Yet, that it was
of great importance that no ears should be able to hear us from the
woods on the banks, could not be doubted. We were looked for, to a
certainty, and we might be retaken at any moment. It was an anxious
time; it was, indeed, indeed, an anxious time.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|