“Right-o! Corporal!” [Illustration] The horse was soon saddled, and Smith reported at the Signal office at five o’clock. “What’s doing, Mac?” “Light Horse Brigade, Romani.” The signal-master read out the address as he handed over the despatch to Smith. “Where’s Romani, Mac?” Mac, the signal-master, came outside and pointed across an unbroken stretch of desert to the east. “About five miles in that direction, I think,” he replied. “Keep near the railway line and you’ll be pretty right.” Smith departed, and rode out into the gathering dusk of the East. He had never heard of Romani before, nor did he know how many miles he had to travel across this desert, where the Turk had been but a few hours ago, to reach the place; so he spurred his horse on over the heavy sand and covered four miles in quick time. “We ought to be there before dark.” He spoke to the horse rather than to himself. “We’ve covered a good four miles now.” He rode on over the level places, climbed the loose sand of the steep, razor-backed dunes, and slid down their opposite slopes to the level again, until another four miles had been crossed; yet he had not reached Romani. The darkness found him still pushing east over the toilsome, never-ending sand, with a set of new northern stars for guides. A desert dog started up at his horse’s feet, yelped away into the night, and threw the horse into a panic of fear; a stunted bush loomed in the darkness ahead and took on the shape of a crouching figure, sinister in the gloom. Here was a dilemma! [Illustration] “Shall I let the horse bolt while I try to loosen my rifle? or is it better to hang on to the horse and chance—ah! It is only a bush. Am I near Romani yet?” Eight more weary miles slipped slowly by, the sandhills pressed in on all sides, and ever the horse stumbled on gamely over loose sand and steep ridges. “Yes, it’s a light.” Smith swayed in the saddle and spoke again. “Hooray! I’ve arrived,” he said. Some time after ten o’clock a wearied despatch-rider came out of the night, handed in a despatch at its Romani address, obtained a receipt and departed. Next morning Smith reported to the signal-master and handed him the receipted slip for his despatch. “How far is it to Romani, Mac?” was all he remarked. * * * * * At Ed Dhaberiye, and at Tel Khuweilfeh, in the hills to the north-east of Bir el Saba, the fight waged hot during the first week of November, ’17. That week is one to be remembered by the cable troop of the squadron; in it they knew no rest, for they worked night and day on the communications, and laid miles of cable to and from the Brigades. [Illustration: A SIGNAL OFFICE IN THE FIELD _By T. H. Ivers_ ] [Illustration] “Corporal Dawk!” “Here, sir,” responded Dawk from behind one of the cable-wagons where he had been trying to dispose of a hasty meal. “Hook in your team and get away to the 2nd Brigade with that line.” “Very good, sir.”