has to be decoded. Telegrams minute." For at this moment from headquarters demand a grimy man has appeared at how things are progressing, the station-hut doorway. He and include instructions to the is the engine-driver of the third O.C. force, who has to be train from the South. His found; these have to be an- engine is failing for want of swered immediately if not water, which he ought to have sooner, and the O.C. wants taken at the bridge, but the to wire back complaining of tank was dry at the moment, delay. Craske is getting and they told him to push on. writer's cramp. A doctor arrives intimating that some men have gone sick and ought to be sent to hospital in a lying-down carriage (and there are only cattle trucks, all of which must go North). At headquarters they are anxious. "Jessop," telephones Godsal, "the Chief is worried about this troop move. The Intelligence men report that force of the enemy's is moving fast round to the north-west. When will the move be through?" "It seems to be going all right," replies Jessop; "everything's despatched, but the detraining reports come in slowly. They'll be fairly bunged up with detraining work anyway, and any wires I may send will merely flurry them. You'd better tell the Chief we're doing our best." Inarticulate murmurs from Godsal. The Chief is scanning the map, measuring again and again from the bridge along the river. "If only we knew anything for certain!" he Deadlock if this engine isn't filled up, for he's now in the middle of the puzzle, and unless the trains can be moved about the cavalry cannot be got alongside the platform, still less can the trucks be shifted so as to unload one by one. The Colonel is fuming. has already all but put the guard under arrest, and wants to know when this damn-foolishness is going to be finished so that his horses can get out. He's gone in search of the O.C. troops, thank goodness. He "There's my station tank," says Craske, "they filled it yesterday, but it'll be a long job with buckets." "Yes, and the Lord knows how long a fatigue party will take. Delay anyway. Some people are born fools. Now if we had a pump!" Doctor to the rescue. This doctor, keen fellow, grasps the difficulty at once, bethinks himself of patterns of pump he knows, and finally makes offer of the pump of his sterilising apparatus. Now, this sterilising apparatus is a new and elaborate affair, intended for the supply of pure water to troops on the line of march, and as an army on the line of march is a mighty thirsty and, organism, moreover, sation, that is the main body won't wait to have its thirst of the force; the advanced quenched, but will drink any troops have marched off, and thing sooner than wait, the the remainder is following imcapacity of the pump on the mediately. The trains stretch apparatus has to be consider- along the line, a shadowy mass able. It is, in fact, the very melting away into the darkness, thing, and luckily has a suction except where engine fires throw hose of sufficient length. The a smoky glow towards the sky. delivery presents a difficulty, He steps wearily off the stage, but finally, after blocking it up and walks towards the station. on some ammunition boxes, His telegram announcing comthat difficulty is overcome; the pletion can be sent at once. tender is filled up enough to "Are you ready to send last for a while anyway, and off those two down trains, the danger of breakdown is Craske?" warded off. But all this takes precious time we work harder than ever to get the trains cleared. The roaring flares illumine a scene of hasty but methodical toil, for the procedure of each train has been almost reduced to a formula, and if it were not for the interruptions and the little things which will go wrong, all were well. A nightmare job: thank Heaven, it comes to an end at last. Farquhar is grimy and dusty, his voice is hoarse, and he feels his eyes burn; but once the troops are off the trains he cares no more about them. He has passed on the messages to the Commanding Officer, who, by the by, has commandeered some of the scanty space of the station-hut to compose his orders in, but has at last gone. With his departure Craske seems calmer. Farquhar stands on the platform a moment: over there that dark mass, where a few lights twinkle about and an occasional jingle of harness varies the low hum of conver "Yes, sir; only I'm waiting to get the line clear. I can't get Henry on the wire just this moment-had 'em a few minutes ago. I'm afraid there's a fault, and I reckon we didn't ought to use a telegraph failed order unless it can't be helped. There's no up train to come in after, so far as I know." "Oh, well, I suppose I might almost go and turn in myself. Still, we might get a completion report through to headquarters: the boss won't care what happens if this move has finished all right. I think I'll doss down here if you don't mind. I left my flea-bag off somewhere near this house when I came, and if nobody boned it I can make ready pretty quick." He stands at the door a moment looking round. The night is calm and gloomy: to the east there is just a suspicion of colour, a foretaste of the dawn. All is silent but for the hissing of steam from a leaky injector, and the occasional creak of a timber in one of the waggons. IV. It is almost dark still, but a dim twilight is spreading, and by degrees developing into a cold grey dawn over the desert, like a rather under- exposed photographic plate. The air is chill with the sharp frostiness of night, and the mounted scout shivers a little as he advances cautiously across the stony plain-has he not been taught that the half-hour or so before the dawn is just the favourite time for surprises? He is weary. Who would not be tired after having drearily groped his way for half the night across this supremely featureless country? It was bad enough to be turned out of the truck in which he and his comrades were ensconced, hard enough lying, but at any rate warm with a tarpaulin closing in the top so as to reduce the ventilation to a minimum; to be turned out-hustled out into pitchy darkness fitfully illumined by lanterns hurrying to and fro (for the flares were at the platform only), amidst the banging of trucks and shouts of command. Half awake, he had collected his horse and kit; almost before he was thoroughly awake, he found himself detailed as one of the advanced-guard scouts. They had been slowly picking their way forward, halting now and then to verify their bearings. Most of the time they had been moving west. He wondered when they would halt. Hullo! that must be the sun coming up; there is a glow vaguely spreading from beyond the edge of the darkness-a smoky redness tinting a section of the distance. The pictorial effect of it hardly appeals to him-he simply feels glad that it will soon be light. Perhaps they will soon come to a halt, or the advanced guard will be relieved. The word is passed to push on more quickly: he can see his right and left hand men more distinctly now, and is conscious of the greater confidence which comes of moving in company. No longer do vague terrific shapes seem to loom up out of the darkness to meet his straining eyes. The glow is becoming quite pronounced, and the light is spreading wider across the sky. The country changes, we are no longer moving across dry powdery ground where such remnants of grass as there are have been burnt to tinder by harsh suns, it is more rocky, but there are occasional traces of vegetation and even a dusty bush or two be careful now, bushes might easily give cover to some sniper lying in wait for the unwary! There is a cleft in the ground, a dry nullah. We must be coming to something in the way of a watercourse. The scout lifts his hand in warning. A little farther, and we come to a deep ravine. We work along the edge, for, as if some mighty plough had been driven through the land, a declivity plunges down to the stony bed where, at the melting of the snows in far off mountains, the great river whirls a muddy torrent. The sides are precipitous, irreg ular, curved, and bitten fantastically by the swirling torrent, now reduced to a mere thread through the pools deep down in the shadows of the chasm. The advanced line moves to its right, feeling along the rim for a practicable descent: the channel turns and twists about, for the course meanders as if the Maker of things had marked it out carelessly when he was planning this forgotten corner. At last a halt. We have turned 8 curve. We look along the valley, and all is explained. The scene is full of smokea curtain stretches across the valley, rent here and there as an idle eddy of wind turns it aside: beyond is a glowing inferno of hot embers from which a tongue of flame darts up now and again. The trestles must have caught and burnt up like a box of matches,-a few more solid timbers stick up drunkenly out of the heap, rails are looped in festoons with some hard-wood sleepers hanging on to them, a steel tie or two projects like a black thread from the sea of glowing embers. We have reached the bridge, but the enemy have been too swift for us. The race is over. The raiders have done their task, and done it well, for the big bridge is down, and a gap sunders the Army from its Base. The Commander-in-Chief will be pretty savage, but he knows that it is only one point in the match which has been scored to the other side. And Milray? Milray will laugh. POLO. BY COLONEL T. A. ST QUINTIN. THE defeat of the English representatives of Polo by the Americans this year has given much food for thought among polo players, and though there have been many reasons given and excuses made, the fact remains. That we have the finest material for polo in the world is beyond question, men, ponies, and money to back it, -but it does not follow from this that we necessarily play the best polo. The opinion of an "old stager" like myself is generally looked upon by the exponents of what is considered a later and more up-to-date game, whatever the game may be, as obsolete, useless, and presumptuous, and it may be so; but having been asked, by both English and American players, as one of the oldest stagers of the polo world, to give a few of my views, I will endeavour to do so for what they are worth, in the hopes that they may lead to some discussion among the present players, and possibly give a hint to the polo enthusiasts of the day which may enable them to improve the present game. I do not propose or desire to enter into any lengthy detail as to the origin of polo, or a minute discussion as to the difference between the Indian and English games, which are played under different conditions of ground and climate, and to my mind are, or were, very dissimilar in their play, though the same rules practically obtain now in both countries. But I think I may be excused if I make a few remarks as to my own opinion with regard to them-an opinion which has been formed from a long and practical experience of both. Any one who chooses to take up the Badminton Library will find there a very excellent history of the game, as far as it is possible to obtain it, from its first inception by the ancients to the present day, and full descriptions as to what it was and is. It may be of interest, however, to some to know from how small a beginning, and from what a different style of play, the present game of polo first emerged from its obscurity and grew into the world-wide, well-known game it deservedly is to-day. It is ancient history now that one day in 1869, when the 10th Hussars were under canvas at Aldershot for the summer drills, Chicken Hartopp, lying back in a chair after luncheon reading 'The Field,' exclaimed, "By Jove! this must be a good game,' and read us a description of "hockey on horseback" in India. Some five or six of us who were in the tent then and there sent for our chargers, and routed up some |