We splashed the thirty miles to the other end of the camp and inflicted ourselves on a major of marines. He seemed deliberately unfriendly at first, but it was only his manner. After five minutes of awkward monosyllabic dialogue he gave us the usual refreshments and took us out to see the town, the name of which should be Mud if it isn’t.

“This is a grand climate,” he said. “They must have had conscription to get people to live here.”

He took us to the camp kitchen, of which he was evidently and justly proud. It was a model of convenience and cleanliness. He spoke to the cook.

“Are you very busy?” he asked.

“No, sir,” was the reply.

“Then I’d shave if I were you,” said the major.