e; and
we were getting over the ground at the rate of about fifteen miles a
day, on our way up to the station, where we were to relieve a regiment
going home.

I don't know what we should have done if it hadn't been for Harry Lant,
the weather being very trying, almost as trying as our hot red coats and
heavy knapsacks, and flower-pot busbies, with a round white ball like a
child's plaything on the top; but no matter how tired he was, Harry Lant
had always something to say or do, and even if the colonel was close by,
he'd say or do it. Now, there happened to be an elephant walking along
by our side, with the captain of our company, one of the lieutenants,
and a couple of women in the howdah; while a black nigger fellow, in
clean white calico clothes, and not much of 'em, and a muslin turban,
and a good deal of it, was striddling on the creature's neck, rolling
his eyes about, and flourishing an iron toasting-fork sort of thing,
with which he drove the great flap-eared patient beast. The men were
beginning to grumble gently, and shifting their guns from side to side,
and sneezing, and coughing, and choking in the kicked-up dust, like a
flock of sheep, when Captain Dyer scrambles down off the elephant, and
takes his place alongside us, crying out cheerily: "Only another mile,
my lads, and then breakfast."

We gave him a cheer, and another half-mile was got over, when once more
the boys began to flag terribly, and even Harry Lant was silent, which,
seeing what Harry Lant was, means a wonderful deal more respecting the
weather than any number of degrees on a thermometer, I can tell you; but
I looked round at him, and he knew what it meant, and, slipping out, he
goes up to the elephant. "Carry your trunk, sir," he says; and taking
gently hold of the great beast's soft nose, he laid it upon his
shoulder, and marched on like that, with the men roaring with laughter.

"Pulla-wulla. Ma-pa-na," shouted the nigger who was driving, or
something that sounded like it, for of all the rum lingoes ever spoke,
theirs is about the rummest, and always put me in mind of the fal-lal-la
or tol-de-rol chorus of a song.

"All right. I'll take care!" sings out Harry; and on he marched, with
the great soft-footed beast lifting its round pads and putting them down
gently so as not to hurt Harry; and, trifling as that act was, it meant
a great deal, as you'll see if you read on, while just then it got our
poor fellows over the last half-mi