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 by his servants and his cattle. Over the gateway
were crosses and queer constellations of dots, more like Mithraic symbols
than anything Christian, but Girgis was a Copt, though the chosen head of
the Muslim village. He rose as I came up, stepped out and salaamed, then
took my hand and said I must go into his house before I saw the church