n to the Sergeant,
saying: "Himalayas, Johnnie!"

They roared with laughter, and ever afterwards called him "Himalayas."

THE INDIAN TRANSPORT TRAIN

(Across the bed of the Salt Lake every night from the
Supply Depot at Kangaroo Beach to the firing-line beyond
Chocolate Hill, September 1915.)

(footnote: "Jhill-o!"--Hindustani for "Gee-up"; used by the
drivers of the Indian Pack-mule Corps.)

The Indian whallahs go up to the hills--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
They pass by the spot where the gun-cotton kills;
They shiver and huddle--they feel the night chills--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

With creaking and jingle of harness and pack--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
Where the moonlight is white and the shadows are black,
They are climbing the winding and rocky mule-track--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

By the blessing of Allah he's more than one wife;
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
He's forbidden the wine which encourages strife,
But you don't like the look of his dangerous knife;
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

The picturesque whallah is dusky and spare;
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
A turban he wears with magnificent air,
But he chucks down his pack when it's time for his prayer;
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

When his moment arrives he'll be dropped in a hole;
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
'Tis Kismet, he says, and beyond his control;
But the dear little houris will comfort his soul;
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

The Indian whallahs go up to the hills;
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
They pass by the spot where the gun-cotton kills;
But those who come down carry something that chills;
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"

CHAPTER XXI. SILVER BAY

On the edge of the Salt Lake, by the blue Aegean shore, Hawk and I dug a
little underground home into the sandy hillock upon which our ambulance
was now encamped.

"I'm going deep into this," said Hawk--he was a very skilful miner, and
he knew his work.

"None of your dead heroes for me," he said; "I don't hold with
'em--we'll make it PRACtically shell-proof." We did. Each day we
burrowed into the soft sandy layers, he swinging the pick, and I filling
up sand-bags. At last we made a sort of cave, a snug little Peter Pan
home, sand-bagged all ro