the troubles began. It wasn't the heat, and it wasn't the work, and it
wasn't the everlasting care of the sick: it was the ceaseless hunt for
the disease-stricken, the still, tireless opposition of the natives, the
remorseless deception, the hopeless struggle against the covert odds.
With nothing behind: no support from the Government, no adequate
supplies, few capable men; and all the time the dead, inert, dust-
powdered air; the offices of policeman, doctor, apothecary, even
undertaker and gravedigger, to perform; and the endless weeks of it all.
A handful of good men under two leaders of nerve, conscience and ability,
to fight an invisible enemy, which, gaining headway, would destroy its
scores of thousands!

At the end of the first two months Fielding Bey became hopeless.

"We can't throttle it," he said to Dicky Donovan. "They don't give us
the ghost of a chance. To-day I found a dead-un hid in an oven under a
heap of flour to be used for to-morrow's baking; I found another doubled
up in a cupboard, and another under a pile of dourha which will be ground
into flour."

"With twenty ghaffirs I beat five cane and dourha fields this morning,"
said Dicky. "Found three cases. They'd been taken out of the village
during the night."

"Bad ones?"

"So so. They'll be worse before they're better. That was my morning's
flutter. This afternoon I found the huts these gentlemen call their
homes. I knocked holes in the roofs per usual, burnt everything that
wasn't wood, let in the light o' heaven, and splashed about limewash and