before in their lives—­savage men and savage horses from somewhere at the back of Central Asia.  Every night a mob of these horses would be sure to break their heel ropes and stampede up and down the camp through the mud in the dark, or the camels would break loose and run about and fall over the ropes of the tents, and you can imagine how pleasant that was for men trying to go to sleep.  My tent lay far away from the camel lines, and I thought it was safe.  But one night a man popped his head in and shouted, “Get out, quick!  They’re coming!  My tent’s gone!”

I knew who “they” were, so I put on my boots and waterproof and scuttled out into the slush.  Little Vixen, my fox terrier, went out through the other side; and then there was a roaring and a grunting and bubbling, and I saw the tent cave in, as the pole snapped, and begin to dance about like a mad ghost.  A camel had blundered into it, and wet and angry as I was, I could not help laughing.  Then I ran on, because I did not know how many camels might have got loose, and before long I was out of sight of the camp, plowing my way through the mud.

At last I fell over the tail-end of a gun, and by that knew I was somewhere near the artillery lines where the cannon were stacked at night.  As I did not want to plowter about any more in the drizzle and the dark, I put my waterproof over the muzzle of one gun, and made a sort of wigwam with two or three rammers that I found, and lay along the tail of another gun, wondering where Vixen had got to, and where I might be.

Just as I was getting ready to go to sleep I heard a jingle of harness and a grunt, and a mule passed me shaking his wet ears.  He belonged to a screw-gun battery, for I could hear the rattle of the straps and rings and chains and things on his saddle pad.  The screw-guns are tiny little cannon made in two pieces, that are screwed together when the time comes to use them.  They are taken up mountains, anywhere that a mule can find a road, and they are very useful for fighting in rocky country.

Behind the mule there was a camel, with his big soft feet squelching and slipping in the mud, and his neck bobbing to and fro like a strayed hen’s.  Luckily, I knew enough of beast language—­not wild-beast language, but camp-beast language, of course—­from the natives to know what he was saying.

He must have been the one that flopped into my tent, for he called to the mule, “What shall I do?  Where shall I go?  I have fought with a white thing that waved, and it took a stick and hit me on the neck.” (That was my broken tent pole, and I was very glad to know it.) “Shall we run on?”

“Oh, it was you,” said the mule, “you and your friends, that have been disturbing the camp?  All right.  You’ll be beaten for this in the morning.  But I may as well give you something on account now.”

I heard the harness jingle as the mule backed and caught the camel two kicks in the ribs that rang like a drum.  “Another time,” he said, “you’ll know better than to run through a mule battery at night, shouting `Thieves and fire!’ Sit down, and keep your silly neck quiet.”