ill. His kit had suddenly grown insupportably heavy and unsufferably

tight about his chest; his turban gave no shade to his eyes nor protection to his temples and neck, and its weight seemed to increase by pounds per minute. He felt very giddy, blue lights appeared before his eyes, and there was a surging and booming in his ears. He sat down, to avoid falling.

“Hullo! Seedy?” ejaculated Bridges, and turned to a big negro who stood behind him, and appeared to be a person of quality, inasmuch as he wore the ruins of a helmet, a khaki shooting-jacket much too small for him, and a whistle on a string. (“Only that and nothing more.”)

“Here, MacGinty-my-lad,” said Bridges to this gentleman, “_m’dafu late hapa_,” and with a few whistling clicks and high-pitched squeals, the latter sped another negro up a palm tree. Climbing it like a monkey, the negro tore a huge yellow coco-nut from the bunch that clustered beneath the spreading palm leaves, and flung it down. This, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad retrieved and, with one skilful blow of a _panga_, a kind of _machete_ or butchers’ axe, decapitated.

“Have a swig at this,” said Bridges, handing the nut to Bertram, who discovered it to contain about a quart of deliciously cool, sweet “milk,” as clear as distilled water.

“Thanks awfully, Bridges,” said he. “I think I had a touch of the sun. . . .”

“Had a touch of breakfast?” enquired the other.

“No,” replied Bertram.

“Hence the milk in the coco-nut,” said Bridges, and added, “If you want to live long and die happy in Africa, you _must_ do yourself well. It’s the secret of success. You treat your tummy well—and often—and it’ll do the same for you. . . . If you don’t, well, you’ll be no good to yourself nor anyone else.”

“Thanks,” said the ever-grateful Bertram, and arose feeling much better.

“Fall in, Subedar Sahib,” said he to the Gurkha officer, and the latter quickly assembled his men as a company in line.

The Subedar of the Sherepur Sikhs approached and saluted. “We want to be the advance-guard, Sahib,” he said.

“Certainly,” replied Bertram, and added innocently, “There is no enemy between here and the camp.”

The Sikh flashed a glance of swift suspicion at him. . . . Was this an intentional _riposte_? Was the young Sahib more subtle than he looked? Had he meant “The Sikhs may form the advance-guard _because_ there is no fear of attack,” with the implication that the Gurkhas would again have held the post of honour and danger if there had been any danger?

“I don’t like the look of that bloke,” observed Bridges, as the Sikh turned away, and added: “Well—I’ll handle your stuff now, if you’ll bung off,” and continued his way to the dump, followed by Mr. MacGinty and a seemingly endless file of very tall, very weedy, Kavirondo negroes, of an unpleasant, scaly, greyish-black colour and more unpleasant, indescribable, but fishlike odour. These worthies were variously dressed, some in a _panga_ or _machete_, some in a tin pot, others in a gourd, a snuff-box, a tea-cup, a saucepan or a jam-jar. Every man, however, without exception, possessed a red blanket, and every man, without exception, wore it, for modesty’s sake, folded small upon his head—where it also served the purpose of a porter’s pad, intervening between his head and the load which it was his life’s work to bear thereupon. . . . When these people conversed, it was in the high, piping voices of little children, and when Bridges, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad, or any less _neapara_ (head man), made a threatening movement towards one of them, the culprit would forthwith put his hands to his ears, draw up one foot to the other knee, close his eyes, cringe, and emit an incredibly thin, small squeal, a sound infinitely ridiculous in the mouth of a man six feet or more in stature. . . . When the last of these quaint creatures had passed, Bertram strode to where the Sherepur Sikhs had formed up in line, ready to march off at the head of the force. The Subedar gave an order, the ranks opened, the front rank turned about, and the rifles, with bayonet already fixed, came down to the “ready,” and Bertram found himself between the two rows of flickering points.

“_Charge magazhinge_,” shouted the Subedar, and Bertram found an odd dozen of rifles waving in the direction of his stomach, chest, face, neck and back, as their owners gaily loaded them. . . . Was there going to be an “accident”? . . . Were there covert smiles on any of the fierce bearded faces of the big men? . . . Should he make a dash from between the ranks? . . . No—he would stand his ground and look displeased at this truly “native” method of charging magazines. It seemed a long time before the Subedar gave the orders, “Front rank—about turn. . . . Form fours. . . . Right,” and the company was ready to march off.

“All is ready, Sahib,” said the Subedar, approaching Bertram. “Shall I lead on?”

“Yes, Subedar Sahib,” replied Bertram, “but why do your men face each other and point their rifles at each other’s stomachs when they load them?”

His Hindustani was shockingly faulty, but evidently the Subedar understood.

“They are not afraid of being shot, Sahib,” said he, smiling superiorly.

“Then it is a pity they are not afraid of being called slovenly, clumsy, jungly recruits,” replied Bertram—and before the scowling officer could reply, added: “March on—and halt when I whistle,” in sharp voice and peremptory manner.

Before long the little force was on its way, the Gurkhas coming last—as the trusty rear-guard, Bertram explained—and, after half an hour’s uneventful march through the stinking swamp, reached the Base Camp of the M’paga Field Force—surely one of the ugliest, dreariest and most depressing spots in which ever a British force sat down and acquired assorted diseases.