THE LAND OF FOOTPRINTS 



what has seemed practically his own back yard at 

 home, he is even more startled than if he had en- 

 countered them in quite strange surroundings. 



We rode into the grass meadow and picked our 

 camp site. The men trailed in and dumped down 

 their loads in a row. 



At a signal they set to work. A dozen to each 

 tent got them up in a jiffy. A long file brought fire- 

 wood from the stream bed. Others carried water, 

 stones for the cook, a dozen other matters. The 

 tent boys rescued our boxes; they put together the 

 cots and made the beds, even before the tents were 

 raised from the ground. Within an incredibly short 

 space of time the three green tents were up and ar- 

 ranged, each with its bed made, its mosquito bar 

 hung, its personal box open, its folding washstand 

 ready with towels and soap, the table and chairs 

 unlimbered. At a discreet distance flickered the 

 cook campfire, and at a still discreeter distance the 

 little tents of the men gleamed pure white against 

 the green of the high grass. 



4* 



