uniform, with the exception that instead of the stiff
crown of the British cap theirs is soft, They are attached to every
battalion, for Tommy Atkins is in a strange land these days, a land
that knows no more English than he knows French,

True, he carries little books of French and English which tell him how
to say "Porter, get my luggage and take it to a cab," or "Please bring
me a laundry list," or "Give my kind regards to your parents," Imagine
him trying to find the French for "Look out, they're coming!" to call
to a French neighbour, in the inevitable mix-up of the line during a
_melee_, and finding only "These trousers do not fit well," or "I
would like an ice and then a small piece of cheese."

It was a curious group that sat in a semicircle around that peasant
woman's stove, waiting for the kettle to boil--the tall Indian major
with his aristocratic face and long, quiet hands, the young English
officer in his Headquarters Staff uniform, the French interpreter, and
I. Just inside the door the major's Indian servant, tall, impassive
and turbaned, stood with folded arms, looking over our heads. And at
the table the placid faced peasant woman cut slices of yellow bread,
made with eggs and milk, and poured our coffee.

It was very good coffee, served black. The woman brought a small
decanter and placed it near me.

"It is rum," said the major, "and very good in coffee."

I declined the rum. The interpreter took a little. The major shook his
head.

"Although they say that a Sikh never refuses rum!" he said, smiling.

Coffee over, we walked about the village. Hardly a village--a cluster
of houses along unpaved lanes which were almost impassable. There were
tumbling stables full of horses, groups of Indians standing under
dripping eaves for shelter, sentries, here and there a peasant. The
houses were replicas of the one where Makand Singh had his quarters.

Although it was still raining, a dozen Indian Lancers were exercising
their horses. They dismounted and stood back to let us pass. Behind
them, as they stood, was the great Cross.

That was the final picture I had of the village of Ham and the Second
Lahore Lancers--the turbaned Indians with their dripping horses, the
grave bow of Makand Singh as he closed the door of the car, and behind
him a Scotch corporal in kilt and cap, with a cigarette tucked behind
his ear.

We went on. I looked back, Makand Singh was making his careful way
through the mud; the h