Our lot were quartered in the 'tween decks. At the best of times the atmosphere there couldn't have been much catch, so the reader can imagine what it was like when every inch was taken up by living, breathing (and sweating) humans. I don't like rubbing it in where men who have rolled up to do their bit are concerned, but the habits of those Terrier shipmates of ours were enough to set you thinking. They brought homeliness to a fine art. Spittoons (had we possessed such) would have been scorned by them as savouring of artificiality. Socks were made to wear, not to be hung up at night and looked at. Feet were intended to be walked on—and soap cost money. As for toothbrushes, well, they were all right for polishing buttons. The spectacle of a big, husky bushman cleaning his teeth night and morning was a thing they couldn't understand at any price, much less appreciate. "If I did that," observed one in my hearing, "I'd have toothache bad"; which seemed to be the general opinion. They were great trenchermen, those shipmates of ours. Lord, how they did eat! I am beginning to think that we rough-and-ready Colonials from the back of beyond have girlish appetites as compared with some of the Old Country boys. And we like our tucker clean: we can chew hard tack with the next one, but we take all sorts of fine care that the cook washes both himself and his utensils. But those Terriers of ours didn't seem to care a cent whether the stuff was clean or filthy. Trifles like that didn't worry them. And the way they used their knives! Still, they were wonderfully expert: I didn't see a single cut mouth all the time I was on board the _Dunera_. Funning apart, however, they just ate like pigs and lived ditto. I don't like to have to record this, but necessity compels me. Tommy Atkins can fight; we admit it, and we take off our hats to him, but compared with the Australasian bushman—the man who fears neither God, man, nor devil—he is in many respects an uncivilised animal. True, we may have run across him at his worst. I hope so, anyway. After leaving the Bay the weather took a change for the better; the sea calmed down and the atmosphere grew much more balmy. We were a little fleet of some five or six transports, escorted by a couple of small cruisers. Our ships were by no means ocean greyhounds, so we made slow, if steady, progress. We killed time in the usual way—concerts, boxing, etc. on weekdays, and Church Parade on Sundays. Life on a trooper is about the last thing God made. I've had my share of it, and I don't want any more. I'm not greedy. On reaching Gibraltar our escort left us, signalling to the transports to follow their own courses. We didn't stop at Gib., but pushed straight on up the Mediterranean. The weather was now quite summer-like, and all on board began to perk up considerably. The sea was a beautiful deep blue, the air had the wine of the South in it, the sun shone brightly, and its setting was glorious.