"I say, sergeant, what am I to do with this campbel now?" asked a soldier, alluding not to a clansman of the famous Highland chief, but to a ship of the desert which had sunk down in the mud, making the most horrible noises imaginable, and seemed likely to be swallowed up after a bit.

"The Johnny who understands him won't do nothing; may I lick him?"

"No, no," said the sergeant, glancing towards his captain, and with a frown at the man which was half a wink, intimating that if it could be done quietly and unofficially a little gentle persuasion used towards the Egyptian driver might expedite matters.

"What's up?" asked the captain, turning back.

"A camel that's down, sir," replied the sergeant.

Tom Strachan put the case in the form of an old nursery jingle, which he murmured for the benefit of another subaltern, Williams, who was by his side at the moment.

"Captain, captain slang sergeant; sergeant won't swear at private; private won't kick Egyptian; Egyptian won't stir up camel; camel won't get out of that; and C Company won't reach Fort Baker to-night."

The captain was equal to the occasion, however.

"Look here, you know," he said to the native driver; "if you don't make that camel go on with that load, you and your two mates will have to carry it yourselves, don't you know."

Whether the "Johnnies," as Private Smith called them, understood all this is perhaps doubtful, as their English was peculiar, but the tone and gesture which accompanied the words were very intelligible, and the Egyptian began to unload the poor bogged beast with great alacrity.

The soldiers, seeing his purpose, helped him, leaving the two other included natives to go on with other camels, and soon the goods carried by the fallen one were conveyed to a sounder place. The wallowing animal being beaten and prodded, emerged from the mud uttering unearthly cries, and was then reloaded, still objecting loudly, and on he went again.

There was no difficulty in catching the others up; other mules and camels in front were in a similar plight. These were also unloaded, and then the men pulled and pushed and heaved them out, first taking off their shoes and stockings, and rolling their trousers up as far as they could.

One man, finding that even so he got those garments sorely bemired, so deep was the slush, took them off altogether; others followed his example, hanging their trousers round their necks. But no one need have been shocked, their limbs were by no means bare, but decently clothed in long clay stockings.

"I say, Tom," said Williams to Strachan, "fancy the regiment turning out like that for Commanding Officers' parade at Aldershot!"

James Gubbins managed to distinguish himself as usual, for he let a floundering mule knock him over and roll upon him. Having to help the animal out, he seized one of his hind legs and hauled at it, with this result--

"Look at Gubbins!" cried one of his comrades; "blest if he hasn't been taking a cast of hisself in clay. Going to have a marble statty, old man?"

"You ought to have a photo taken to send home to your sweetheart, Jim."

"Pity it's the end of February, and not the beginning; what a lovely valentine he would make, surely."

"It's easy to laugh at a chap," spluttered Gubbins, "but this stuff tastes awful; and however shall I clean myself for inspection?"

"Never mind, old chap, you'll be confined to barracks, and then them Johnnies with the spears can't get at you."

"If any chap had a drop of rum instead of jaw to give a chap with his mouth full of filth, there would be more sense in it," said the victim; and it was one of the wisest remarks he had made for a long time. Some good Samaritan _had_, and administered it, and Gubbins was consoled.

"You have made these Egyptians work," said Tom to his captain.

"Yes, I flatter myself I know how to treat those fellows."

"Oh!" cried Tom.

"What's the matter?" asked Fitzgerald.

"Nothing; only if a poor sub had done it!"

"Done what?"

"Well, you know, it was one of the jokes which were tabooed by general consent."

"Get out!"

But it must be owned that though he meant nothing so atrocious as Tom Strachan implied, the captain did p.r.o.nounce _fellow_ like Fellah!

The fort was reached at last, and never a mule or camel left on the way.

There were some salt-water puddles at the end of the worst part of it, and in these the men contrived to wash the mud off their limbs before resuming their nether garments. Ward the quartermaster was there before them; and he had a rough tent in which to receive the officers of the two companies, and he treated them to ginger-beer and tea. Ward was an old campaigner, who had seen no end of service--been frozen in the Crimea, broiled in India, devoured by stinging insects on the Gold Coast. Strachan liked to listen to his yarns, and was in consequence rather a favourite of his. And if you are going on a campaign, it is not half a bad thing to be on good terms with a doctor, a quartermaster, or any other staff officer. They always have a bite or a drop of something should you happen to come across them when n.o.body else has.

"You didn't expect this kind of work when you thought, as a boy, how you would like to go into the army, eh?" he asked him.

"No," said Tom, laughing; "they don't enter into these little details in books. It's mostly feasting and fighting, with other fellows getting killed, that a school-boy looks forward to."

"Ah, the fighting is the best of it; there is something to keep you going in that. Give me the chap that will stand hunger, thirst, fatigue, want of sleep, and fever, and be as jolly as a sand-boy all the time. That's the sort for a soldier."

"But all that would be no good if he would not stand up when the pinch came."

"Of course not; but a fairly bred one--I mean English, German, French, Italian, Dutch--is bound to stand if he is properly trained and led. If he is rightly drilled it does not occur to him to run away unless his comrades do; and then, after a bit, he gets excited. Then, as to generals; I don't say that it's an easy thing to fight an army well, but it is easier than to feed it. I tell you all the real art of war lies in little details that no one ever talks about."

"Then you are not a hero worshipper, Ward?"

"Not I, I have seen too much. I take no credit from men who get mentioned in despatches, win the Victoria Cross, and so forth; but there is a lot of luck in it. Heaps of men deserve these prizes just as much as those who get them. Indeed, the most deserving of all get killed out of hand, and make no claim. You see, one man does a thing with a flourish, which attracts notice, and is popular, and gets watched; and another is quiet and retiring, and afraid that if he pushes himself he may not prove as valuable an article as he has led people to expect; and a smart or plucky thing which gives promotion, or the Victoria Cross, to the first, merely elicits a 'well done, old fellow!' from his mates for the second."

"And that's worth risking a good bit for!" cried Green, with his eyes sparkling, and a heightened colour.

"Hark to Green! Good lad! By Jove, he's right!" Green blushed.

"Why are you like King Duncan's blood on Lady Macbeth's hand, Edwards?"

asked Tom Strachan of the last speaker.

"I can never guess riddles," said Edwards. "Give it up."

"Because you have made the Green one red," said Strachan.

"_You_ will never miss the Victoria Cross for want of cheek, at any rate," said Fitzgerald.

"I am glad of that," replied Tom, "as I have my plan for it. I mean to stick behind you the first time you go to do anything heroic, and if you get killed I shall hope to get the credit of your action."

"So you want me to be knocked on the head, do you, you young villain?"

"Not at all, sir; no one can say I would rather have your room than your company."

"What _are_ the boys coming to?" cried Fitzgerald. "When I was a sub, I no more dared to speak to my captain like that than to--to walk off parade without permission," he added, after pausing to think what was the highest possible stretch of mortal impudence.

"Perhaps your captain had not your appreciation of wit," replied Tom.