Thinking black; 22 years without a break in the long grass of Central ...

EASTWARD HOI 107
(29th August.)
Heat increasing as we push on and in, the quicksilver
hurrying up the glass towards grill heat by 10 a.m. At
daybreak taking up of the fragments of supper that
remain a pocketful, we are off on the wings of the
morning, pushing far ahead of our crawling caravan.
Chancing on a rippling river intercepting the trail, you
sit down on the shiny, moss-covered bank and perform a
much more serious toilet than your fugitive cat's lick in
the dark camp. (N.B.—A tooth-brush over a running
stream, this is the cream of all tramp joys.) Then, at
last, behold our crawling caravan emerge from a hurst,
the Union Jack bearer leading the way. As we have
given them the slip and pushed on betimes, this is our
first encounter with our own men, so when the Indian
file marches past each man has his morning to give,
followed by some droll remark. Then one perchance
starts a song, the whole line of leathery lungs taking up
the howling chorus : this particularly when at the end of
a long fagging journey. Sirs ! what singing, the whole
harmony not unlike the tune with which a rusty old
coal-cart tries to solace itself when crawling down a hill.
How do we travel, you ask ? Have we carts or horses
or donkeys ? No, we have none of these, howbeit a kind
English lady was so concerned about our delays that she
asked the touching question :
*' Did the wheel of your
cart stick in the mud ? " Alas ! the only " cart-wheel
we have to do with is the aforesaid rut of that name, and
a few months of this gipsying on the road makes you