Brown was by far the best exponent of this art of walking in mud while
carrying weight. The driver was quite good at it, having had
considerable practice on similar occasions. I was uncompromisingly bad.
I sat down three or four times to the driver's once. Brown did not sit
down at all, but he did some amazing movements in skidding, reminding
one in a somewhat vague way of the tramp cyclist of the music-hall
stage.

I have often thought since these days of mud in Mesopotamia that a vast
fortune might be made by some one who could find a commercial use for a
substance, as slippery as oil, as indelible in staining properties as
walnut juice, and as adhesive as fish glue. Large quantities of
Mesopotamian mud could be shipped to London and made up into tubes. Then
all that would be necessary would be three distinctive labels. One could
describe it as a wonderful lubricant and cheap substitute for machine
oil. Another could proclaim to the world a new washable distemper. A
third could laud it as a marvellous paste or cement that would adhere to
anything whatsoever.

"There is one comfort," Brown gasped in an interval between two very
energetic spells of sliding, "if we can't move the Ford, nobody else
can!"

In the circumstances of the moment I cannot say that I felt much
"comfort" in contemplating the car's condition. In fact I didn't care in
the least whether I saw the thing again or not. All I cared about was
reaching the Khan and putting down my bag. We found tracks where some
scrubby plants were growing, where the surface was passable, but as we
neared the entrance to the Khan, where carts and horsemen had made a
veritable quagmire, we stuck, all three, without apparently any prospect