His yarns of India out-Rudyard Kipling. They were superb, full of barrack-room touches, and the smells and sounds of the jungle. He told of the time when a soldier could get “jungling leave”; when he could go off with a Winchester and a pal and a native guide for two or three months; when the Government paid so many rupees for a tiger skin, so many for a cobra--a scale of rewards for bringing back the trophies of the jungle wilds. He pictured the Himalayas and the Hindu Kush, describing the everlasting snows where you look up and up at the sheer rocks and glaciers; “you feel like a baby tortoise away down there, so small, as like as not you get giddy and drunk-like.” One night Hawk told me of a Hindu fakir who sat by the roadside performing the mango-trick for one anna. I illustrated it in the sand as he told it. _caption: Dug-out, September 9, 1915._ 1. The fakir puts a pinch of dust from the ground in a little pile on a glass plate on a tripod. 2. He covers it up with a handkerchief or a cloth. 3. He plays the bagpipes, or a wooden flute, while you can see the heap of dust under the cloth a-growing and a-growing up and up, bigger and bigger. 4. At last he lifts up the cloth and shows you the green mango-tree growing on the piece of glass. “He covers it again--plays. Lifts the cloth, shows you the mango tree in leaf. Covers it again--plays again. Takes away the cloth, and shows you the mango-tree in fruit, real fruit; but they never let you have the fruit for love or money. Rather than let any one have it, they pluck it and squash it between their fingers.” CHAPTER XXIII. THE WISDOM OF FATHER S---- One day, while I was making some sketch-book drawings of bursting shells down in the old water-course, the Roman Catholic padre came along. “Sketching, Hargrave?” “Yes, sir.” And then: “I suppose you're Church of England, aren't you?” “No, sir; I'm down as Quaker.” “Quaker, eh?--that's interesting; I know quite a lot of Quakers in Dublin and Belfast.” Who would expect to find “Father Brown” of G. K. Chesterton fame in a khaki drill uniform and a pith helmet? A small, energetic man, with a round face and a habit of putting his hands deep into the patch pockets of his tunic. Here was a priest who knew his people, who was a real “father” to his khaki followers. I quickly discovered him to be a man of learning, and one who noticed small signs and commonplace details. His eyes twinkled and glittered when he was amused, and his little round face wrinkled into wreaths of smiles. When we moved to the Salt Lake dug-outs he came with us, and here he had a dug-out of his own. When the day's work was finished, and the moonlight glittered white across the Salt Lake, I used to stroll away for a time by myself before turning in.