A COOK THOROUGHLY DONE. 
91 
we could sleep, as our betters—including Madame 
Pfeiffer—had done before us; but its inside looked 
so dark, and damp, and cold, and charnel-like, that one 
really doubted whether the lying in the churchyard 
would not be snugger. You may guess, then, how 
great was my relief when our belated baggage-train was 
descried against the sky-line, as it slowly wended its 
way along the purple edge of the precipice toward the 
staircase by which we had already descended. 
Half-an-hour afterwards the little plot of grass 
selected for the site of our encampment was covered 
over with poles, boxes, cauldrons, tea-kettles, and all 
the paraphernalia of a gipsy settlement. Wilson’s 
Kaffir experience came at once into play, and under 
his solemn but effective superintendence, in less than 
twenty minutes the horn-headed tent rose, dry and 
taut, upon the sward. Having carpeted the floor with 
oil-skin rugs, and arranged our three beds with their 
clean crisp sheets, blankets, and coverlets complete, 
at the back, he proceeded to lay out the dinner table 
at the tent door, with as much decorum as if we were 
expecting the Archbishop of Canterbury. All this 
time the cook, who looked a little pale, and moved, I 
