We marched with Sinbaungwè in Upper Burma. The border was marked by stone pillars at set intervals and by an actual line cut in the turf, which had to be inspected periodically and kept in visible repair. Along the frontier at intervals of four or five miles was a series of police posts. Picture a quadrangular enclosure girt by a kya-hlan[49] of stout bamboos interwoven with a bristling array of bamboo-spikes, quite an efficient protection against a rush if the heavy wooden gate was closed. Beside the gate stood a watch-tower. In the midst was a station-house and office, with a barred wooden cage for prisoners. Round this were grouped the small but sufficient houses of the constables and native officers. The posts were garrisoned entirely by local Burmans armed with das[50] and muskets. The policeman of those days was a picturesque person, in Burmese dress, of a pattern to some extent dependent on the taste of the Superintendent. A red-striped paso or lôngyi[51] marked the servant of the Queen. He wore his hair long, surmounted by a gaungbaung,[52] and was not expected to pose as a Gurkha sepoy. With all his many and pleasing virtues and vices, one quality his warmest admirers have never claimed for the average Burman, respect for discipline. You may drill Burmans till they look as smart as soldiers of the line, and you can teach them to shoot excellently. But so far it has not been found possible successfully to train them in habits of discipline and method. It was, therefore, never a surprise, though it excited clamorous if unreasonable wrath, when, on reaching a police post a few hundred yards from the frontier, one found the great gate ajar, the watch-tower empty, and the sentry either absent on his own more or less lawful occasions, or peacefully sleeping with his musket by his side. This was well enough in quiet times, but when the war came the result was seen in the desertion of the frontier posts, and their destruction by roving bands of dacoits.