Yes, he had a change of raiment, but not one single button or inch of gold lace on his uniform jackets.
Both buttons and lace had long since been gifted away.
About this stage of his wanderings Harry was as tough in muscle as if he had been made of guttapercha, while his hands and face were of a colour somewhat between brick-dust and bronze.
Another month found the little band back once more in the village of the dismal swamp.
The poor creatures there seemed, if anything, glad to see them. On making inquiry, it was found that no more lions had sought to molest them since the man-eater had been shot.
Harry rested here a night, resolving to push on next day, and by a forced march get quite clear of the marsh.
But lo! next day not only the swamp but the village itself was enveloped in a dark, wet mist, and the day wore away without the sun once appearing.
“No good, no good,” was the answer of the guide to Harry’s repeated queries whether it was not possible to make straight headway in spite of the fog.
“No good, no good.”
And the next day showed no improvement nor the next week even.