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.

On the seventh night of our voyage on the rafts, we made fast, as usual,
on the opposite side of the river to that from which we had started, in
as dark a place as we could pick out. Our little encampment was soon
made, and supper was eaten, and the children fell asleep. The watch was
set, and everything made orderly for the night. Such a starlight night,
with such blue in the sky, and such black in the places of heavy shade on
the banks of the great stream!