'Where's big "Mars'" tents?'

'Have any of ye seen my "Bearer?"'

'Has the "Bump" come in?' and so on.

Such a scene of bustle and excitement. Friends meet that have not seen
each other for a twelvemonth. Queries are exchanged as to absent
friends. The chances of the meeting are discussed. Perhaps a passing
allusion is made to some dear one who has left our ranks since last
meet. All sorts of topics are started, and up till and during breakfast
there is a regular medley of tongues, a confused clatter of voices,
dishes, and glasses, a pervading atmosphere of dense curling volumes of
tobacco smoke.

To a stranger the names sound uncouth and meaningless, the fact being,
that we all go by nicknames[1].

'Giblets,' 'Diamond Digger,' 'Mangelwurzel,' 'Goggle-eyed Plover,'
'Gossein' or holy man, 'Blind Bartimeus,' 'Old Boots,' 'Polly,'
'Bottle-nosed Whale,' 'Fin MacCoul,' 'Daddy,' 'The Exquisite,' 'The
Mosquito,' 'Wee Bob,' and 'Napoleon,' are only a very few specimens of
this strange nomenclature. These soubriquets quite usurp our baptismal
appellations, and I have often been called 'Maori,' by people who did
not actually know my real name.

By the evening, all, barring the very late arrivals, have found out
their various camps. There is a merry dinner, then each sahib, well
muffled in ulster, plaid, or great coat, hies him to the club, where