ulars in a leather case that bore signs of the excessive
dampness of the climate on The Coast, as the littoral of the African
shore 'twixt the Niger and the Senegal Rivers is invariably referred to
by the case-hardened white men who have fought against the pestilential
climate and won.

A short distance from the oil stove on which a kettle was boiling,
thanks to the energy and thoughtfulness of Private Tari Barl, stood an
assortment of camp equipment: canvas _tent d'abri_, ground sheets,
aluminium mess traps, a folding canvas bath, and last but not least an
indispensable Doulton pump filter.

When a man's head is buzzing from the effects of strong doses of
quinine, and his limbs feel limp and almost devoid of strength, it is
not to be wondered at that he is decidedly "off colour." It was only
Wilmshurst's indomitable will that had pulled him through a bout of
malaria in time to be passed fit for active service with the "Waffs,"
as the West African Field Force is commonly known from the initial
letters of the official designation.

And here was Tari Barl--"Tarry Barrel," his master invariably dubbed
him--smiling all over his ebony features as he stood, clad in active
service kit and holding a cup of fragrant tea.

Tari Barl was a typical specimen of the West African native from whom
the ranks of the Coast regiments are recruited. In height about five
feet ten, he was well built from his thighs upwards. Even his
loosely-fitting khaki tunic did not conceal the massive chest with its
supple muscles and the long, sinewy arms that knew how to swing to the
rhythm of bayonet exercise. His legs, however, were thin and spindly.
To any one not accustomed to the native build it would seem strange
that the apparently puny lower limbs could support such a heavy frame.
He was wearing khaki shorts and puttees; even the latter, tightly
fitting, did little to disguise the meagreness of his calves. He was
barefooted, for the West African soldier has a rooted dislike to boots,
although issued as part of his equipment. On ceremonial parades he
will wear them, outwardly uncomplainingly, but at the first opportunity
he will discard them, slinging the unnecessary footgear round his neck.
Thorns, that in the "bush" will rip the best pair of British-made
marching-boots to shreds in a very short time, trouble him hardly at
all, for the soles of his feet, which with the palms of his hands are
the only white parts of his epidermis, are as