Soon after dinner the squadron approached a lock, and the Commodore went ashore to exhibit the passes of his command. As the collective measurement of the boats did not reach ten tons, the four had been included in a single pass, the cost of which was twenty cents, and this sufficed for the dozen locks which were to be passed before the smooth water of the river could again be reached. It was probably a realization of the small amount of money which their labor represented which made the various lock-keepers so solemn of mien as they labored over their gates to let the Liliputian squadron through. The walls of each lock were substantially built of huge blocks of grey stone, and as the water subsided rapidly the Artist imagined himself being let down into a dark dungeon. He hastily drew his portfolio from a locker, and proceeded to sketch a study for a "Prisoner of Chillon," hugging the shady side of the lock as he did so. The sketch proceeded to his satisfaction, and then some loose earth behind the stones ejected through a crack some of its superfluous moisture in a parabolic curve over the Artist's shoulder, and upon the sketch, putting in some half tints which gave the picture an air of extreme realism and antiquity. Reaching at length a long stretch of canal upon which no boats were visible, the squadron disembarked and washed its respective faces with soap, an operation rendered necessary by the drippings it had encountered under the bridge, and during the various showers. An hour later, the face of the Vice looked as if it had been liberally but carelessly patched with court-plaster. Fragments of skin fluttered aimlessly from his cheeks and brow, while his Roman nose was as picturesque as the brown shoulders of a tramp who had lately begged a very ragged white shirt. The Vice became conscious that he was attracting attention, and a pocket-mirror, furtively consulted, revealed to him the cause. He passed his mirror to the others, and the merriment of the party came to a sudden stop, for every one else was displaying symptoms of impending trouble of the same sort. Not one of them had experienced an hour of sunshine a day for months; their faces had been burning steadily for days, and the alkali of the soap had destroyed the last bond between the burned cuticle and that beneath. The Purser suggested that cold cream, being peculiarly a French production, could doubtless be found in the next village, but the Vice said him nay. "Frenchmen who don't know the Marseillaise when they hear it," said he, "can't be expected to know anything about the appliances of modern civilization."