below there is a Ford, which has a distinguished claim on fame, inasmuch
as it is one of the gateways from Burmah into Western China. This Ford
is guarded continually by a company of Sikhs, under the command of an
English officer. To be candid, it is not a post that is much sought
after. Its dullness is extraordinary. True, one can fish there from
morning until night, if one is so disposed; and if one has the good
fortune to be a botanist, there is an inexhaustible field open for
study. It is also true that Nampoung is only thirty miles or so, as the
crow flies, from Bhamo, and when one has been in the wilds, and out of
touch of civilization for months at a time, Bhamo is by no means a place
to be despised. So thought Gregory, of the 123rd Burmah Regiment, as he
threw his line into the pool below him.

"It's worse than a dog's life," he said to himself, as he looked at the
Ford a hundred yards or so to his right, where, at the moment, his
subaltern was engaged levying toll upon some Yunnan merchants who were
carrying cotton on pack-mules into China. After that he glanced behind
him at the little cluster of buildings on the hill, and groaned once
more. "I wonder what they are doing in England," he continued.
"Trout-fishing has just begun, and I can imagine the dear old Governor
at the Long Pool, rod in hand. The girls will stroll down in the
afternoon to find out what sport he has had, and they'll walk home
across the Park with him, while the Mater will probably meet them half
way. And here am I in this God-forsaken hole with nothing to do but to
keep an eye on that Ford there. Bhamo is better than this; Mandalay is
better than Bhamo, and Rangoon is better than either. Chivvying _dakus_
is paradise compared with this sort of thing. Anyhow, I'm tired
of fishing."

He began to take his rod to pieces preparatory to returning to his