CHAPTER XXIII
THE HAREM LADY
THE gunboat Zafir went chug-chugging up the White Nile, pushing five barges against the muddy current. Her tow was set up like ten-pins, one at the peak, then two and two behind. Between the last two barges the Zafir buried her prow and shoved blindly.
Zack Foster, Effendi, was sitting on a box at the gun-boat's rail. Lyttleton Bey and McDonald Bimbashi lounged in canvas chairs; Colonel Spottiswoode gazed upon the monotonous stretches of river.
From Zack's seat he could look down upon the rear of the servant's barge, where their cooking was being done. Forward, below deck, the same barge was loaded with camels and donkeys. Upstairs the servants slept and did the washing. Mahomet, Fudl, Said and the others had stretched their clothes lines, from which many a linen suit was flapping. But Zack kept his fascinated eyes upon the donkeys. "Cunnel," he asked, "what you reckin' dem little gray mules costs—fer a nigger?"
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