excited soda water syphon, completes the Babel in my immediate
neighbourhood.

The Irish orderly, Mick, by the way, is one of the most wonderful and
plausible fellows I have met out here. To say he could talk a donkey's
hind leg off would be a mild way of describing his excessive
volubility--he would chatter a centipede's legs off. Often when he comes
in, with another orderly's broom, to make a pretence of sweeping the
tent out, and leaning on the stick, starts retailing stories of
mystery and imagination, I lay down the book I am trying to read, and
closing my eyes, drift into the land of true romance.

[Illustration: _Owing to the great wear and tear on the Hospital
garments and the large influx of fresh patients--pyjama suits are very
rare in a perfect state or satisfactory size. Slippers also are
excessively scarce. The above is a common scene._

ORDERLY (to complaining new patient): "_Well, it's the best Oi can do
for yez._"]

It is a land uninhabited by ladyes fayre in the general way, for the
_dramatis personae_ usually comprise "th' ortherly corp'ril"; "th'
sargint of th' gyard"; "th' qua'thermasther, an' a low blaygyard he
waz"; "th' gin'ril o' th' disthrict"; "a lif'tint in 'H' Company"; and
other military personages, with "th' ortherly room" or a "disthrict
coort-martial" thrown in. If I had only had a phonograph I would
preserve them, and when I get home, have them set up in type, tastily
bound, and announced as "Tales from the Ill, by R--. K--.," and then
live a life of opulent ease on the proceeds thereof.

"Th' sisther," as he calls her, says he is a dreadful man, and from her
point of view I don't think she is far away from the truth. He argues
about everything, and is always blaming his fellow orderlies. Still, it
is the dreadful men who are invariably so entertaining.

I have just heard that a friend, Trooper Bewes, a cheery fellow of the
Devons, has succumbed to his wound. Christmas Eve, forsooth! His chum
was shot through the stomach, and died on the veldt. Poor fellow, he
(the chum) was always swallowing with avidity any rumour about our going
home--perhaps he was too keen, and ironical fate stepped in. It's a hard
Christmas Box for his poor people, is it not?

We are debating whether to hang our socks up or not. If I do, and get
something inside, it will probably be a scorpion. I found one in my boot
a few days ago. The latest from our cheerful town pessimist, is "Don't
be surprised if you