ments; for,
some two or three were reduced to the temporary necessity of draping
themselves in blankets, _a 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