One could not help admiring the fine free swing with which the Gordons went past. It is all very well to talk about the petted Highland regiments, but you would have to search a long while through the British Army to find a finer battalion than the 2nd Gordons. There did not appear to be a weedy man among them, and the hard work of the present operation has filled them with health and vigour. Somehow the dark tartan kilts did not show the dust as one would have expected. I noticed that all the company officers carried Lee- Metford carbines, but no swords. More Highlanders—the Argyll and Sutherlands — followed, and then a battalion of Rajputs, and another of Baluchis. The block of traffic on either side of the line of route grew denser every minute. Cross-roads met at that point, and it was amusing to see people trying to break through the column. A man on a big camel checked the whole advance by entangling himself amid the ranks of the 15th Sikhs. The little donkey boys tried to drive their charges through an occasional gap, but the donkeys never failed to stand stock still in the very midst of the adventure. Once a haggard wreck of humanity, carried in a dhoolie, cursed his bearers into making the perilous attempt. In their nervousness they selected the moment when -a mule battery was passing, and instantly found themselves bumped and shouldered in all directions. The wasted man in the dhoolie — he looked like a drug-taker — shaking with terror, shrieked imprecations on the
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