of warring donkey-boys clamoring for excess backsheesh. It had been a "glorious ride," they said, eyeing my indolent immaculateness with deep reproach and they forthwith reduced the Professor's visible supply of Source Cachat by one whole bottle each.

During dinner to-night we ran upon our first sandbar. The vessel had sailed promptly on receiving back her tired company and boomed merrily along through the dusk. Nor did she tie up when darkness came, but steamed on into the night — a night of inky blackness and super-brilliant stars. We sat down to our first leisurely meal. All at once during the entrée there came a sudden, sickening hesitancy, a faint shivering and trembling of the ship. The white-robed, red-sashed Arabs, swarming hither and yon, set down their trays and embraced the nearest stanchions. Followed a horrid, grating sound, a clattering of the engine bells, a strong backward lurch- and we had struck. The Professor's bottle - alas, not Source Cachat this time-started incontinently toward me in company with some roast turkey and mashed potato. Every one grabbed his plate, his glass of wine, or whatever he held most dear at the moment. General consternation was succeeded by hearty laughter. There was no serious upset. Most of the food remained on the table. The glass, I trust, was fully

covered by insurance. The boat backed off successfully, and we went on.

I fancy this occasional contact with the African continent under our feet will become so common an occurrence that we shall soon pay little heed to it. Indeed, we have "smelled of" other bars during the evening before finally coming to anchor, and we have already learned, when we hear the bells ring and feel the engines stop, to lay hold of the nearest fixed object and brace ourselves for the coming impact. It is likely to happen at every crossing of the river as we follow the channel in its tortuous course, and to-night the Professor has busied himself with a plan for a new and improved Nile steamer which shall be a sort of cross between a cheese-box on a raft and a Democrat wagon!

We have tied up at last, however, in the middle of the stream, and the dynamo has shifted to half-speed as a warning that all lights are shortly to be extinguished for the night. So ends the day.

March 1. There is to be no excursion ashore today, for which all are devoutly thankful. Apparently several other amateur equestrians have found the experiences of yesterday somewhat trying, and only Raschid is able to plump himself down with entire assurance that it is n't going to hurt. Raschid is every

where, chiefly at the feet of the ladies. He is a handsome fellow, clothed in the traditional garb of the dragoman, long-skirted and tarbushed. He hunkers at your feet so gracefully that you wonder whether it would n't be a good idea to abolish all such things as chairs. He speaks excellent English, fair German, admirable French-and of course all sorts of queer Oriental tongues. In his wake, as a sort of swarthy satellite, follows his assistant, hight Mahmoud, a lithe, alert, erect young fellow, with a lean, intelligent face.

All day there has been little to do but look at the river and inspect our fellow travelers - men and women with whom we are destined in these next three weeks to have much to do. They are a mixed lot, a few Americans, many Germans, a fair number of English, and a Frenchman or two. Up to date the Professor and I have found as kindred spirits two British stock-brokers, the dean of a well-known cathedral, and a peppery little Irish colonel of dragoons (retired), whose strong Jesuit propensities have already brought on one hot debate with the Church of England in the smoke-room. Apart from these there has been no excitement to-day. The ship is working steadily up the Nile against the current and the blasts of a quartering khamasin, which continues to blow. The channel shifts from bank to bank, and Mark Twain's Mississippi River stories are taking on

a new meaning to me as I watch the pilotage. We are constantly ordering out the leadsmen-two tall Arabs with long white poles, who stand on either side of the bow and feel for the bottom. The poles are painted with rings of red, and apparently the steersmen watch the depth of water from above, for nothing is said by the men in the fo'c'sle. As the water grows shoaler and shoaler along those painted rods, the engines are slowed-are stopped - and we drift, drift, drift, slower and slower against the boiling of the current. Everybody lays hold of something. Nobody breathes. It seems as if a shadow had fallen upon the ship.

And then she "smells" the bar. Bang! go all the bells at once. The paddles churn violently in the back-gear. The whole vessel groans and travails, strains consciously backward-and we are clear again. We start forward once more, scent the bar again, and once more back off. At last we find the place, -a low place, - where we grate for a moment and glide over into deeper water again. The leadsmen put up their dripping poles. The bells sound "Full speed ahead!"— and we relapse into our reading, talking, and looking at the banks.

Occasionally we get on too hard for immediate release, or get too close to the bank to turn promptly -and then it's all hands to the poles in a mad

endeavor to shove her around. At these times the singing grows most enthusiastic among the men. For ordinary uses the song in most favor is an antiphonal chant which sounds like "Illy-Haley - AllahHé! Illy-Haley-Allah-Hé." Raschid says it does n't mean anything, so far as he knows. I suspect it has some sort of pious aspiration in it, a sort of prayer to boost the work in hand along. For more strenuous occasions the men have a quick-march song which the Professor and I call "Soulless Alice," because that is what it seems to say. Raschid says the latter part is really "Allah-yessa," and possibly there's a pious invocation in it, too, although they tell me it is n't safe to inquire too deeply into the literal translation of all these fo'c'sle ditties. Two or three times to-day the men have struggled manfully to get the boat clear, and I shall fall asleep to-night with that guttural "Soulless Alice" ringing in my

ears.

As for the shore, we have seen little of it all day. The sand has been driving off it to our westward side like a raging blizzard, effectually concealing the majestic line of pyramids that run along the horizon. It is amazingly like a snow-storm, this constant, driving cloud of fine sand which cuts like a knife when you face it. It billows far out over the water like a fog. It sifts off the edges of the banks as snow blows