Full parliament of the shanty was instantly summoned, and we proceeded to discuss the matter. It was decided, without opposition, that we should accept the invitation, and should spend the following day at the Member's. Not a dissentient voice so far as that was concerned. The whole parliament would pay its respects to Miss Fairweather, somehow or other; no question about that. And then we had to take into consideration the important subject of dress.
Every one wished to make the best appearance he possibly could, and Old Colonial peremptorily commanded that we should turn out in our best attire. But our best was a poor thing.
The common wardrobe of the shanty was overhauled; and it became evident that we were worse off than we had at first supposed. Under ordinary circumstances, not more than two or three of us would require a go-to-meeting rig-out at one and the same time. Even a full change of garments was scarcely ever called for by the whole party at once. Commonly, when going to visit one of our married neighbours, we thought it enough to clean ourselves a bit and put a coat over our shirts; that was all. But something more killing was needful on this occasion; and, to our consternation, we found we had not got a square change of clothes to go round.
It was too late to go to the township to buy some additional clothes; besides, we could not afford such extravagances just then. Three or four of us might have turned out pretty decently, perhaps, but not the whole crew. And no one would hear of any plan that might keep him at home. We would all go, making shift as well as we could.
All other work was at once put aside, and we were soon briskly at it, washing out shirts and trousers. A roaring fire was kindled outside the shanty, for the purpose of quickly drying the cleansed integuments; for, some two or three were reduced to the temporary necessity of draping themselves in blankets, à la Maori, while the only clothes they had were being washed and dried.
Two of the boys had canvas breeches, that were supposed to be white when they were clean. Now canvas goes hard and stiff when wet, and is therefore not readily washed. Our chums were dissatisfied with the stained and discoloured appearance their nether garments presented, after all the washing they could give them. Pipeclay was suggested, but of pipeclay we had none. In lieu of it the boys got some white limestone, which they first calcined, and then puddled up into a paste with water. This mixture they rubbed into the fabric of their breeches.
The effect of this could not be very well made out by firelight, and next morning there was no time to alter it if it did not suit. However, the ingenious whitewashes were satisfied. They had what Dandy Jack called "stucco breeches," which had a dazzling effect at a distance, certainly. The worst of it was that the plaster cracked and peeled off in flakes, and that the four whitewashed legs left visible traces upon everything else they touched. Still, we do not go courting every day, you know, and some little variation from conventional routine is excusable when we do.
We had all to take to tailoring, sewing, mending, and cobbling. Everything we had was tattered and torn; and had to be patched and repaired somehow. We could not confront the gaze of Beauty with great rents in our shirts. This was a fearful business, the materials for effecting it being exceedingly limited, and our fingers unused to the work. It was a sight to see O'Gaygun, his philosophy and gallantry at war with one another, sewing blue flannel patches on a red shirt, and groaning lamentably over the task.
Old Colonial officiated as barber, and, one by one, we all passed under his hands, he himself being operated upon by the Saint. With a pair of wool-shears, and the relics of the common comb, he clipped our flowing tresses close to our heads, reducing the unruly touzles to something like order; and he trimmed our beards to a uniform pattern, such as he considered was neat and becoming. We did not want to look like savages, he said.
Unfortunately, the Saint was not such a good hand at the hair-cutting business, so Old Colonial looked rather singular, the white scalp showing in patches among his raven curls. But the boss could not see this himself, and no one mentioned the matter to him, out of merciful consideration for the Saint.