Tuan Abdulla must have fresh boatmen, and many, to shorten the dark and fatiguing road.
Hai-ya! There! Boats! By the riverside indistinct forms leap into a noisy and disorderly activity.

There are cries, orders, banter, abuse.

Torches blaze sending out much more smoke than light, and in their red glare Babalatchi comes up to say that the boats are ready.
Through that lurid glare Syed Abdulla, in his long white gown, seems to glide fantastically, like a dignified apparition attended by two inferior shades, and stands for a moment at the landing-place to take leave of his host and ally--whom he loves.

Syed Abdulla says so distinctly before embarking, and takes his seat in the middle of the canoe under a small canopy of blue calico stretched on four sticks.
Before and behind Syed Abdulla, the men squatting by the gunwales hold high the blades of their paddles in readiness for a dip, all together.
Ready?
Not yet.

Hold on all! Syed Abdulla speaks again, while Lakamba and Babalatchi stand close on the bank to hear his words.