We were all crowding to the handrail looking overboard. The Egyptian
sunset had just vanished and the deep blue of an Eastern night held
the docks in a haze of gloom.

The pipe band of the Inniskillings was playing "The Wearin' o' the
Green" in that mournful, gurgling chant which we came to know so well.

One of the little Egyptian beggar-girls was dancing to it on the
floating quay down below us by the flicker of the arc-lamp. She was a
tiny mite, with a shock of black hair and brown face and arms. She
wore a pink dress with some brass buttons hung round her neck. She
danced with all the supple gracefulness of the out-door tribes of the
desert, never out of step, always true and rhythmic in every motion of
arms and body.

When the pipes on board trailed away with a hiss of wind and a
choking, gurgling noise into silence the little dancing girl began to
sing in a deep, musical voice--the voice of one who has lived out-of-
doors in tents--

"Itta long way--Tipple-airy!
--Long way to go!
--Long way--Tipple-airy!
Sweetie girl I know! . . ."

She sang in broken English, and danced to the tune, which she knew
perfectly.

The khaki crowd aboard whistled and cheered and laughed. Some one