the ’weled’—­boy—­Achmet.  The most merry, clever, omnipresent little rascal, with an ugly little pug face, a shape like an antique Cupid, liberally displayed, and a skin of dark brown velvet.  His voice, shrill and clear, is always heard foremost; he cooks for the crew, he jumps overboard with the rope and gives advice on all occasions, grinds the coffee with the end of a stick in a mortar, which he holds between his feet, and uses the same large stick to walk proudly before me, brandishing it if I go ashore for a minute, and ordering everybody out of the way.  ‘Ya Achmet!’ resounds all day whenever anybody wants anything, and the ‘weled’ is always ready and able.  My favourite is Osman, a tall, long-limbed black who seems to have stepped out of a hieroglyphical drawing, shirt, skull-cap and all.  He has only those two garments, and how anyone contrives to look so inconceivably ‘neat and respectable’ (as Sally truly remarked) in that costume is a mystery.  He is always at work, always cheerful, but rather silent—­in short, the able seaman and steady, respectable ‘hand’ par excellence.  Then we have El Zankalonee from near Cairo, an old fellow of white complexion and a valuable person, an inexhaustible teller of stories at night and always en train, full of jokes and remarkable for a dry humour much relished by the crew.  I wish I understood the stories, which sound delightful, all about Sultans and Efreets, with effective ‘points,’ at which all hands exclaim ‘Mashallah!’ or ‘Ah!’ (as long as you can drawl it).  The jokes, perhaps, I may as well be ignorant of.  There is a certain Shereef who does nothing but laugh and work and be obliging; helps Omar with one hand and Sally with the other, and looks like a great innocent black child.  The rest of the dozen are of various colours, sizes and ages, some quite old, but all very quiet and well-behaved.

We have had either dead calm or contrary wind all the time and the men have worked very hard at the tow-rope.  On Friday I proclaimed a halt in the afternoon at a village at prayer-time for the pious Muslims to go to the mosque; this gave great satisfaction, though only five went, Reis, steersman, Zankalonee and two old men.  The up-river men never pray at all, and Osman occupied himself by buying salt out of another boat and stowing it away to take up to his family, as it is terribly dear high up the river.  At Benisouef we halted to buy meat and bread, it is comme qui dirait an assize town, there is one butcher who kills one sheep a day.  I walked about the streets escorted by Omar in front and two sailors with huge staves behind, and created a sensation accordingly.  It is a dull little country town with a wretched palace of Said Pasha.  On Sunday we halted at Bibbeh, where I caught sight of a large Coptic church and sallied forth to see whether they would let me in.  The road lay past the house of the headman of the village, and there ‘in the gate’ sat a patriarch, surrounded