arrived, falling in with new-looking kit-bags.

It was through this throng of seething khaki and transport traffic
that our water-cart jostled and pushed.

Often we had to pull up to let the Indian Pack-mule Corps pass, and it
was at one of these halts that I happened to come close to one of
these dusky soldiers waiting calmly by the side of his mules.

I wished I had some knowledge of Hindustani, and began to think over
any words he might recognise.

"You ever hear of Rabindranarth Tagore, Johnnie?" I asked him. The
name of the great writer came to mind.

He shook his head. "No, sergeant," he answered.

"Buddha, Johnnie?" His face gleamed and he showed his great white
teeth.

"No, Buddie."

"Mahomet, Johnnie?"

"Yes--me, Mahommedie," he said proudly.

"Gunga, Johnnie?" I asked, remembering the name of the sacred river
Ganges from Kipling's "Kim."

"No Gunga, sa'b--Mahommedie, me."