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MONTIE DUNDAS'S LAST STOEY. 



Picture if you can an undulating sandy waste, bounded on 

 one side by a low range of hills, sparsely covered with 

 stunted shrubs, and on the other by the Hmitless horizon; 

 a burning sun is beating down from a cloudless sky. Picture 

 also a square of British troops, who have just beaten off the 

 last savage attack of the wild hordes of the Soudan, and who 

 are about to reckon up what the victory has cost the victors. 

 The air is thick with dust and smoke, the cries and moans of 

 the wounded are heard on all sides, while a sickening smell 

 of blood assails the nostrils. In the distance the sharp crack 

 of the rifle, the cries of vengeance, and every now and then a 

 ringing British cheer, tells how the cavalry are harassing the 

 retreating foe. 



Hemmed in between the baggage camels and mules is a 

 small space where the surgeons are already busy at work, and 

 into this space is brought a stretcher on which lies the 

 apparently lifeless form of a young officer. In due course his 

 wants are attended to, and a limb is lopped off, but the grave 

 face of the surgeon and the significant shake of the head 

 seems to indicate that his labour has been in vain. 



" Poor chap ! " mutters Surgeon-Captain Smithers. " His 

 earthly worries will soon be over." 



Another young officer bursts into the little space, wiping 

 the dust and sweat from his brow, as he looks eagerly round 

 among the dead and dying, a thin stream of blood trickling 

 down his hand the while. 



" Is Dundas here ? " he asks one of the busy surgeons. 



"Over there by Smithers, I fancy," replies the other, 

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