On the other side of the Great Inland Sea lies the Desert. Even on the map it seems to spread far and wide and featureless, its borders shading off with a thin sprinkling of names: names we do not recognise, for they are but little places, some of them merely wells round which a hovel or two have grouped themselves. Of old there was little to make the desert change there were tracks, it is true, along which caravans would sometimes progress, eager enough to be past the barren land without misadventure at the hands of man or of the elements, for a caravan might be rich booty for savage tribesmen who lurked in some fastnesses of the wilds, always on the watch, like the vulture after his prey: and there is little law and less police on the plains, and the dust is the terror that rides on winged winds. The old tracks are marked out that all may see by bones, bones of camels and mules which have fallen by the scraps of cloth and leather dropped on the route, to be wafted hither and thither and covered up sooner or later by the drifting sand. It is a It is

a

weary and a dry land, where the sun knows how to scorch and the wind how to freeze.

But away to the North is the country of an active race, energetic resourceful men, who send their sons out into the world that they may open up new lands, bringing civilisation to the heathen and profit to themselves, a stern, cold land, where the winter nights are long and the snows are deep, where summers are short and few.

They are fine fighting men, these Northerners.

And South, beyond the desert and beyond the mountains, is a fair and fertile land, washed by warmer seas. Prosperous and wealthy... long peace has made these men fat.

Yes, between this side and that of the desert there is a world of difference.

But time rolls on, civilisation will not stand still, men seek for new countries to exploit: it happens that men look at the desert and wonder what can be done with it. Baffled by it as a hindrance to their spreading borders, they first seek to dodge it. They cross the sea in ships, and, starting from the seaboard, would penetrate southward by that route.

They make railways indeed, stretching like tentacles toward the frontier like as some figtree spreads its roots to a watercourse; but it is not enough. A railway from the sea is indeed the first stage, but railways are foreordained to join their routes in the end. Stephenson prophesied that the railways of England would all connect when but few and petty iron roads were yet projected, and what Stephenson foresaw for England then, we may now foretell for other less populated places.

For a while the politicians talk very loud, misunderstanding one another with many words. And at last they make a writing, and sign it and seal it with many seals, and there is calm again. And the desert keeps its secrets.

But the railway cries aloud for traffic-for traffic in peace perhaps, for traffic in war certainly. Inspired correspondents begin to write knowing articles about "The Linking-up of the Transmarine Railway" and the great commercial advantages to result from such an international investment. Others, signing themselves "Cassandra or something equally suitable, prophesy darkly of the drawing together of frontiers, the extended Frontier policy, and the Day of Armageddon. But these are but thunders round Olympus, a rumbling far above the head of the man in the street, that man to whom Governments have become wont to truckle.

And last, the Engineer. He has steadfastly regarded the

map. He has been measuring and calculating. After the times of talking and writing his day comes. His it is to bridge the desert, to join the two electrically charged bodies so that a current may flow between them. Does he per

suade or is he commanded by those who sit in high places, who knows? These are matters of high import.

Finally, the Ruler of the North says, "Let it be made"; and forthwith go forth men,the surveyor with his levels, his staves, his chains, his theodolite; his little party, like a small caravan, moving a dot-and-go-one passage across the barrenness. Then a

pause-months, while calculations are made, men are collected, organisation is perfected, and great trees are being cut down for sleepers and bridge timbers somewhere half a continent away; rails are being rolled, girders and steel work prepared, engines and rolling-stock are building. Stacks of stores, offices, and houses are arising at what is to be the breaking-off point of the new line; storekeepers are busy sorting, arranging, checking.

All is ready now, the pegs have been driven marking the centre line, the cut and fill. Formation gangs descend in vast camps upon the desert, construction parties follow, and close behind, the train crawls forward like a great centipede with a busy swarm of flies round it, as if it were pushing its path in front, and stretching behind is the shining ribbon of the new steel track.

To the southward, spreading over many miles, is the Position. A great Army occupies it, seemingly dormant, like a giant resting after strife. For the Army has pushed forward rapidly, rolling back the enemy's hastily gathered forces, but never bringing them to a stand till now. Yes, pushed forward until the chain of its communications along the line is a heavy one, and it must even wait a while gathering strength; for the enemy is mobile, he has been playing a waiting game, drawing back to a gradual concentration. The Army's Commander is not yet ready to launch his forces to a decisive blow. The foe whom the politicians thought so unready has also collected an Army that will not be brushed aside; and the forces face one another now, like fighters sparring for an opening.

Here, at the head of the lines of communication, it seems as if we were in a railway goods- yard, and, in fact, it is little different, except that goods - yards are wont to be near large towns. Those things which loom bulkily in the dusk, like warehouses, are stacks of forage and piles of boxes, bales and timber, machinery, and what not. That building from which a glint of fire shows is a running shed.

Furthermore, the roads have been laid somewhat hastily, and the 66 boxing" which

usually fills up to sleeper level is not there. In fact, it is not good walking between the tracks.

At the end of the fan of sidings, moving to and fro in the dusk, a locomotive is busy; now and again you hear the bump-clink, bump - clink of shunted trucks, and the rhythmic snort of the shunting-engine as she sorts out the empty waggons and sends the loaded ones to their appointed places-Supplies, Ordnance, Engineer Stores, Baggage, Medical Comforts.

The light is not over-good, and I should not recommend you to try and pick your way about the sidings without a guide; the men have only a few lanterns to do their work by; besides, there are sentries. That light you see dodging, halting at intervals and going on again, is the lantern by which the number-taker is doing his work-a purposeless sort of job it might seem this business business of lifting up tarpaulins and taking down numbers in a book, just part of the routine business that seems far removed from the glamour of war.

No houses, did I say? Stay, here are one or two shanties, and inhabited. To judge by the constant tic-tac which permeates the air round it, one of them is a telegraph-office, and a busy one too.

Let us look inside the larger hut. It is scantily furnished: a stove, a table, a couple of

A youngish officer is seated at the table, his khaki foragecap pushed back from his forehead: his age seems about thirty, but his arm bears the stripes of a Lieut. - Colonel: there is something of the bulldog in his expression: his face is a bit drawn and lined. Railway responsibilities are heavy.

He is examining some papers, some sort of tabulated statements; a pile of telegrams lies near by, and a number of letters and documents are ranged at the back of the table in orderly heaps. Presently he calls to a brother officer working in an adjoining room, who comes in at the summons.

"Look here, Jessop, something's got to be done to release trucks. It seems to me that there are a tremendous lot standing under load at some of the depôts. You know yourself that it simply paralyses traffic to have all those locked

up. Can't you keep them moving?"

"Yes," says the other, "it does look bad; but with these constant shifts of depôts it's very hard to get the supply johnnies to clear them."

"Well, if they won't clear them, you must simply tell your officers to get the stuff heaved off. We can't run the show unless station work is kept going smartly. Have you

VOL. CLXXXVI.—NO. MCXXIX.

taken it up with D. of S.?... Oh, here's the very man we want!"

And indeed as he spoke another elderly officer had come in. Heavily built, he walked somewhat stiffly and with an air of some importance. The badges on his arm showed full Colonel's rank, and the array of medal-ribbons across his chest spoke of many campaigns.

"The old story, Milray," said the new-comer, with a heartiness which seemed a little forced, "Trucks!" He paused a little, as if for effect. Had he not earned distinction on "the Boards," and not lost the trick yet!

"My people at the Base," he went on, "are complaining that they can't complete my indents unless you give them more truck space. Can't feed the

Army without, you know. I just came across to see what you could do."

"My dear Colonel," responded the other, "I rather think it's you whom I have to ask to make an effort. If your people would only unload what they've got more smartly we should have available all those which are shown in this report as standing under load—I've been just talking to Jessop about it, we should be sending down empties as fast as they could deal with them. Jessop will bear me out. . . . Oh, yes, I know you'll say that you will need the stuff later on: why you haven't unloaded it is that it isn't exactly what you want at the moment, eh? My dear sir, that isn't the way to run a railway: a railway's a machine

2 z