“I suppose it was all open country?” remarked Geoffrey; “no roads, and like a bleak sort of common, I always fancy it; with a few hills and lots of stones and rocks.” “That was the case in some places, but in others we had, after awhile, a capital road, especially by the Kyber line, thanks to the sappers; and some wag in one place put up a finger-post with ‘Madras to Cabul’ painted on it in large letters; and the road itself was as good as you need wish to see; but in many parts we had no road at all, and it was terrible work for the artillery, especially when the country was cut up with lots of watercourses.” “By-the-bye, Rex,” said Helen, helping herself to her second peach, “how were you off for food?” “Very badly, indeed, sometimes; and I assure you that I now know what _hunger_ means, from downright practical experience.” “Why, you had your rations and your mess,” cried Geoffrey. “A pound of meat a day for a hungry man who spends, perhaps, twelve hours in the saddle, with a bitter bleak wind to sharpen his appetite, was not much to boast of; and sometimes the ration was bad, or bone. When we had our permanent camp we fared well enough, and had a stew--a big pot into which everything was thrown: game, rations, goat, etc.; and as the pot was always kept going, it had a rich miscellaneous flavour, difficult to describe, but most excellent.” “Do you mean that it was not made afresh every day?” asked Miss Ferrars, a fair amateur cook. “Every day something fresh was added, but the original stew was about three months old. Never cleared out, that was the beauty of it.” “O-oh!” cried Helen, “how could you! how can you?” “It was most superior, I assure you; our _pot-au-feu_ was noted, I can tell you, Helen.” “That will do. No more traveller’s tales for _me_, Rex”--rising--“I’m going to see if Alice is asleep.” As the door closed on the disgusted matron, Reginald said: “Helen may turn up her nose at our stew, but if she had been one week in camp, she would have appreciated it just as keenly as the most ravenous among us.” “Had you a mess-tent?” asked Geoffrey solicitously. “Yes, a kind of one, when we were fixtures; nothing very luxurious, I need scarcely say, and little or no mess kit. It was a sight, once seen never forgotten, to witness our fellows going to dinner; various figures in greatcoats and comforters solemnly approaching, and each bearing in his hand his own drinking-cup, and plate, and knife and fork. We lived in Spartan simplicity, I can assure you.” “And how did you like it?” inquired Miss Ferrars. “To be frank with you, not much,” returned her host candidly. “The cold was simply awful--bad enough for us who come from a coldish climate, but for our poor camp-followers and syces, natives of the broiling plains, it was, in many cases, death. I could not say how many camel-drivers and grass-cutters have been found frozen in their sleep.”