This idea was all very fine in theory, but we found that most of the
coolies, having made the first trip, sat down on the bank and proceeded
to dress, leaving the remainder of their load to find its way across as
best it could. Luckily Sergeant Reeves was on the farther bank, and I
having also crossed over, we proceeded to drive every coolie back into
the river, until there was not a load left on the opposite bank.

Rudyard Kipling, in his story of the taking of the Lungtungpen, tells
how, after the scrimmage in the village, "We halted and formed up, and
Liftinant Brazenose blushin' pink in the light of the mornin' sun. 'Twas
the most ondacent parade I iver tuk a hand in--four-and-twenty privates
an' a officer av the line in review ordher, an' not as much as wud dust
a fife between 'em all in the way of clothin'." As I stood on that
bank, with the evening sun lighting up the river, I thought of
"Liftinant Brazenose," and also blushed. True, I was clothed myself, but
instead of twenty-five, I had two hundred coolies in the same condition
as that bashful officer's army.

It took us some three hours before all those loads were over, during
which we had some exciting moments. Most of the coolies found the stream
too strong to stem alone, and so they crossed in parties of a dozen or
more, holding hands; but now and then a man would try by himself,
generally with the result that half-way across he would get swept off
his feet, and go floating down the stream, vainly endeavouring to regain
his footing. Then there would be a rush of two or three of the levies,
the man would be swung on to his feet, and his load fished for. One man
I thought was bound to be drowned; he had somehow tied his load on to
his head, and, being washed off his feet, his head was kept down below
the water, while his legs remained waving frantically in the air. The
load, being light, floated, and in this manner he was washed down