CHAPTER XI.—PEOPLE ON THE RIVER BANKS.
THE morning puts a new face on our affairs. It is Sunday, and the most devout could not desire a quieter day. There is a thick fog on the river, and not breeze enough stirring to show the stripes on our flag; the boat holds its own against the current by a sort of accumulated impulse. During the night we may have made five miles altogether, and now we barely crawl. We have run our race; if we have not come into a haven, we are at a stand-still, and it does not seem now as if we ever should wake up and go on again. However, it is just as well. Why should we be tearing through this sleepy land at the rate of four miles an hour?
The steersman half dozes at the helm; the reïs squats near him watching the flapping sails; the crew are nearly all asleep on the forward deck, with their burnouses drawn over their head and the feet bare, for it is chilly as late as nine o'clock, and the thermometer has dropped to 540. Abd-el-Atti slips his beads uneasily along between his fingers, and remembers that when he said that we would reach Asioot in another day, he forgot to ejaculate; “God willing.” Yet he rises and greets our coming from the cabin with a willing smile, and a—
“Morning sir, morning marm. I hope you enjoyin' you sleep, marm.”
“Where are we now, Abd-el-Atti?”
“Not much, marm; this is a place call him Hadji Kandeel. But we do very well; I not to complain.”