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 not see this himself, and no one mentioned the matter to him, out of merciful consideration for the Saint.