THIRST 187 



tear myself away to make for J. Yandu, the hill under 

 which Dem Bekeir used to be. As we had passed no 

 water during that march, and, in our confidence of 

 so doing, neglected to fill our water-bottles, it was 

 imperative to march on. 



We descended a sharp slope of about 150 feet, and 

 followed a direction at right angles to our former one. 

 Then, as always, in the likelihood of the stragglers, 

 as I named all but my guide and orderly, my sole 

 companions, losing the way, we lit a patch of un- 

 burned grass, and after going a mile or so lit another. 

 The pillars of smoke gave them the direction. 



We soon reached the foot of the hill after crossing 

 what, in the rains, must be a swamp. En route we 

 had disturbed some bees, but none of us were stung, 

 and a few broken twigs on our track served as a 

 warning to those that followed. 



The guide found no water at the place he hoped to. 

 The wells among the ruins of the large village on the 

 south side of the hill had long ago fallen in. Digging 

 in the quondam swamp produced none, and though 

 every one, except Tibsherani Eff. and myself, sallied 

 out to search, we went thirsty to bed. 



Next morning I knew what it is to be really 

 thirsty. My tongue was round, rough, and thick, 

 and clung to the roof and sides of my mouth. 

 According to Junker's map, the Pongo River should 

 be four miles south of us, so I gave the guide the 

 direction and started over a col which joined the 

 twin peaks of J. Yandu, passed the " babai " of Dem 

 Bekeir, and followed him. My compass soon told 



