ping these fine fellows
out of action than by anything else that could happen under heaven. They
did not come here on a picnic party, they did not come for a circus; they
don't want a lot of maudlin sentiment wasted on them whilst they stay out
of the firing line to mind the jam, or give the African girls a treat.

Mr. Chamberlain has made a good many mistakes in regard to the war,
mistakes that will live in history when his very name is forgotten, but he
need not add to them by alienating Australian sentiment by coddling men who
came across the Indian Ocean to prove to the whole world that on the field
of battle they are as good as their sires. Our fellows have got hold of a
rumour (the prophets only could tell whence camp rumours originate) that
instructions have been received from England that they are to be kept out
of danger, and a madder lot of men you could not find anywhere between here
and Tophet. They wanted to send a petition to Lord Roberts asking to be
allowed to face the enemy, but though the officers are quite as sore as the
men, they could not permit such a breach of discipline. So now the men ease
their feelings by jeering at each other.

"What are we here fer, Bill?"

"Oh, get yer head felt; any fool knows why we are here. There's a blessed
marmalade factory somewhere about, and we are going to mind it whilst the
British Tommy does the fighting."

"Marmalade be d----!" chirruped a voice down the lines. "Think they'd trust
us to look after anything so important?"

"Oh, you're a blessed prophet, you are," snarls the little bugler. "P'raps
you'll tell us what our game is."

"Easy enough, little 'un. Our officers 've got to practise making mud maps
in the dust with a stick, and we've got to fool around and keep the flies
away."

"I suppose they'll keep us at this till the war's over, and then send us to
England, 'nd give us a bloomin' medal, 'nd tell us then we are gory,
crimson heroes. Ugh!" grunts a big West Australian with a face like a
nightmare, and a voice that comes out of his chest with a sound like a
steam saw coming through a wet log.

"Don't know about England 'nd the medal, 'Beauty,'" chirrups a Sydney
gunner, "but I know what they'll give us in Australia if we go back without
a fight."

"P'raps it'll be a mansion, or a sheep station, or a stud of racehorses,"
meekly suggests a tired-looking South Australian, with a derisive twist of
his under lip.

"No, they won't present us with a