Edwards, Amelia B.: A thousand miles up the Nile (New York, [1888])

THEBES TO ASSUAN. 153

flesh—especially flesh on the Nile—is heir to, wo quickly
turn our good going into a trial of speed. It is no longer
a mere business-like devotion to the matter in hand. It is
a contest for glory. It is the Philse against the Fostat, and
the Bagstones against both. In plain English, it is a race.
The two leading dahabeeyahs are pretty equally matched.
The Philsa is larger than the Fostat; but the Fostat has a
bigger mainsail. On the other hand, the Fostat is an iron
boat; whereas the Phils, being wooden-built, is easier to
pole off a sand-bank, and lighter in hand. The Bagstones
carries a capital mainsail and can go as fast as either upon
occasion. Meanwhile, the race is one of perpetually vary-
ing fortunes. Now the Fostat shoots ahead; now the
Phite. Wo pass and repass ; take the wind out of one
another's sails; economize every curve; hoist every stitch
of canvas, and, having identified ourselves with our boats,
are as eager to win as if a great prize depended on it.
Under these circumstances, to dine is difficult—to go to
bod superfluous—to sleep impossible. As to mooring for
the night, it is not to be thought of for a moment.
Having begun the contest, we can no more help going
than the wind can help blowing; and our crew are us keen
about winning as ourselves.

As night advances, the wind continues to rise, and our
excitement with it. Still the boats chase each other along
the dark river, scattering spray from their bows and
flinging out broad foam-tracks behind them. Their cabin
windows, all alight within, cast flickering flames upon the
waves below. The colored lanterns at their mast-heads,
orange, purple and crimson, burn through the dusk-like
jewels. Presently the mist blows off; the sky clears; the
stars come out; the wind howls; the casements rattle; the
tiller scroops; the sailors shout, and race, and bang the
ropes about overhead; while we, sitting up in our narrow
berths, spend half the night watching from our respective
windows.

In this way some hours go by. Then, about three in the
morning, with a shock, a recoil, a yell and a scuffle, we all
three rush headlong upon a sand-bank! The men fly to
the rigging and furl the flapping sail. Some seize punting
poles. Others, looking like full-grown imps of darkness,
leap overboard and set their shoulders to the work. A
strophe and antistrophe of grunts are kept up betweeu