for a few yards to stick again and again, snorting and panting and
unable apparently to make any further progress.

A detective, equipped with a certain amount of motor knowledge, might
have been able to discern that the mud-encrusted monster was a Ford car.
A tailor, whose technical training would help him to penetrate the
disguise of thick slime, might have been able to recognize by the cut of
their clothes that the first of the three figures was an R.A.F. driver
and the other two were naval officers. As a matter of fact one of these
forlorn representatives of our boasted sea-power was Brown, and the
other one, although I think he would have hesitated to swear to his
identity at the time, was the unfortunate writer of these chronicles.

There was no doubt about it; we were done.

"At the present rate of progress we shall reach Baghdad in about ten
days," said the driver, "and it's getting worse."

[Illustration: A STREET IN KHADAMAIN]

A few more hours' rain and no power on earth would move the car an inch.
We knew from experience that nothing could be done for four or five
days, so we faced the situation philosophically, shouldered a bag each
and staggered in the sliding mud in the direction of the Khan. We
started off with no illusions as to our fate if we encountered rain, and
were therefore quite prepared for this. There was nothing for it but to
camp out somehow until the sun had been given a chance. The fact that we
had been able to reach this point with the Khan and railway close at
hand was a piece of luck for which we were thankful.