e Mounted Infantry (to which latter force Jack and his comrades
of the Royal Blankshire were attached), together with detachments of
the Engineers and Medical Staff Corps, a squadron of the 19th Hussars,
and a large train of "baggagers," were preparing for the start, amid
much bugle-blowing, shouting of orders, and roaring of camels as the
loads were being placed on their backs. Gradually, as the hour
approached for the assembly of the force, the noise grew less; even
"Lamentations" ceased his protestations, and stalked off to the parade
ground without further murmuring.

Lord Wolseley inspected the force, and shortly before three o'clock the
cavalry scouts started. As Jack stood by the side of his kneeling
steed, with Joe Crouch on his right, his heart beat fast. This was
something different from any of his previous military experiences; the
cartridges in his pouch and bandoleer were ball, not blank. It was to
be the real thing this time; the stern reality of what he and Valentine
had so often pictured and played at far away in the peaceful old house
at Brenlands.

Though showing it in different ways, all his comrades were more or less
excited at the prospect of a move: some were silent, others unusually
noisy; Joe Crouch puffed incessantly at a little clay pipe; Sergeant
Sparks seemed to have grown ten years younger, and overflowed with
reminiscences of Afghanistan and the Ghazees; while Lieutenant Lawson
might, from his high spirits and cheery behaviour, have been just
starting on a hunting expedition or some pleasure excursion.

At last it came: "Prepare to mount!"

"Well, here goes!" said Jack, drawing his steed's head round, and
putting his foot in the stirrup. "Here goes!" echoed Joe Crouch.

"Mount!" The bugle sounded the advance, the word was given, and the
column moved off across the undulating plain--the Guards in front,
baggage camels in the centre, and the Mounted Infantry bringing up the
rear; the length of the column extending to nearly a mile.

Scared gazelles sprang up from among the rocks and bushes, and bounded
away.

"Hi, Swabs! where's yer catapult?" inquired Tommy Briggs.

"Keepin' it for the niggers," answered the marksman significantly.

After an hour's going, many of the riders sought to ease themselves,
and vary the peculiar swaying motion by a change of position: some
crossed their legs in front of them; while Jack and his chum sat
side-saddle, facing each other, and for the tw