troops. The result, though not unwholesome, was of a deep brown
colour, and hardly palatable. If once cut into overnight, a tsampa loaf
would have subsided into something very stodgy by morning, though, if
all consumed at a sitting, it would not be found so heavy.

During the latter part of our march we had run out of most of such
delicacies as a supply column usually carries, and, as I have already
mentioned, no arrangement could be made to bring up the loads and loads
of parcels which were now accumulating at Gyantse for most individuals
and messes belonging to the column. In those days, in our attitude
towards food, we reverted very much to the proverbial school-boy. We
were frankly greedy in thought, word, and deed. The most favourite of
interesting conversations was to discuss the ideal menu at a first-rate
London restaurant. But sometimes these imaginings grew too painful. I
remember well a case of two officers at noon on a comparatively hot day,
sitting by the wayside at a halt.

'Ah,' said one, 'what I should really like now would be a large
tumblerful of good iced hock-cup.'

These idle words touched a tender spot in the other officer, to whom
hock-cup happened to be the beau-ideal of drinks.

'Shut up!' the latter answered angrily, a fierce light in his eye; 'if
you mention hock-cup again, I'll break your head!'

Jam, as we marched to Lhassa, though not a necessity, was our primary
desideratum. With long days in the open air and also with considerable
fatigue to undergo, you craved for the sustenance of sweet things. Till
sugar also began to run short, we used to make treacle from it. Like the
school-boy, we, as a rule, thought little of alcohol. Just as water at
that altitude boils at a low temperature, so did it need only a little
fiery spirit to give the desired tingle to the blood. Most messes had
soon run out of whiskey, and rum in small quantities from the supply
column took its place.

I am inclined to think that, delightful as messing in a large mess is,
something is lost by having no personal share in your own catering. A
mess president, of course, especially on service, has a vast weight upon
his shoulders. He has to foresee the wants of many hungry mouths months
ahead, and fit them in to a scanty allowance of transport. But his
function is of a special kind. The ordinary member of a mess simply eats
what is put before him, notes whether it is good, bad, or indifferent,
and thinks no more abou