![]() "I'm surprised it has journeyed this far," Phineas said before tucking the envelope into his satchel. Winston handed him a yellowed envelope, scalloped at a corner by rodent bites. At his feet lay a wooden case that looked to hold some mechanical part or another for the crumbling printer, and two small crates - likely pamphlets from the Society to stock their diminishing stacks, which the Reverend would claim as proof of interest from the Siamese, ignoring that most had no knowledge of English and that the cooks were using them as kindling. Outside, he could see that Winston had had better luck at the customs house. He suspected them of uproarious laughter as soon as he left. They assured him that their most diligent men would continue to retrace ship manifests and turn over their warehouses. How he longed for those New England waters - cold, clean, without crocodiles.Īt the river port, the Dutch shipping company clerks shook their heads. The heat and the gelatinous air sent his thoughts to leisurely summer swims across Archer's Pond. It was necessary that this chore be performed daily here in the Siamese capital, one could sweat oceans in an hour. The Reverend had lent him two sets of shirts and trousers, and each day he washed one in a pan of boiled water and wore the other. He dearly missed his medical books, drawing supplies and clothes. Three weeks after the disappearance of his steamer trunks somewhere between the Siamese port and Singapore, Phineas Stevens still held hope for their return. ![]()
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