But this is only the first
stage. The things to be starched have to be sorted and sent to one
woman, and those to be mangled to another, and both lots have to be
fetched home again by Tom and Jack. (I have forgotten to tell you that
Jack's real name, elicited with great difficulty, as there is a click
somewhere in it, is "Umpashongwana," whilst the pickle Tom is known
among his own people as "Umkabangwana." You will admit that our
substitutes for these five-syllabled appellations are easier to
pronounce in a hurry. Jack is a favorite name: I know half a dozen black
Jacks myself.) To return, however, to the washing. I spend my time in
this uncertain weather watching the clouds on the days when the clothes
are to come home, for it would be altogether _too_ great a trial if
one's starched garments, borne aloft on Jack's head, were to be caught
in a thunder-shower. If the washerwoman takes pains with anything, it is
with gentlemen's shirts, though even then she insists on ironing the
collars into strange and fearful shapes.
Let not men think, however, that they have it all their own way in the
matter of clothes. White jackets and trousers are commonly worn here in
summer, and it is very soothing, I am told, to try to put them on in a
hurry when the arms and legs are firmly glued together by several pounds
of starch. Then as to boots and shoes: they get so mildewed if laid
aside for even a few days as to be absolutely offensive; and these, with
hats, wear out at the most astonishing rate.
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