The work went on day after day for some time, always at high pressure, and the men got into rare good training for marching or any other kind of work. And they had plenty of water to drink, for the steamers in the harbour were perpetually at work condensing the salt-water, which turns it, as you probably know, into fresh. Pipes then conveyed it on shore, where it was received in tanks and barrels. And the want of natural springs, and the consequent necessity of having recourse to an artificial supply, were not without advantage.
For the only water which can be got for troops when campaigning is very often polluted, and the men get dysentery from drinking it, whereas this was necessarily quite pure. And probably owing to this cause there was wonderfully little sickness. A terrified horse gave trouble in the landing him one day, and Tom Strachan, who was with the fatigue party which had to do it, lent his personal assistance, and with success, but he grew warm over the job.
As he was wiping the perspiration from his forehead Major Elmfoot rode up.
“Well, Strachan,” he said, “how do you like this work? Do you want it over that you may begin fighting the Arabs?”
“Well, yes, sir,” replied Tom. “A little of it goes a good way, and we have had more than a little. Still, we should not get on well without grub or cartridges, should we, sir?”
“No, my lad, you are right there; and I am glad to see you are a philosopher.”
“Am I that, sir? Well, it is no use grumbling, but I am glad it is pretty nearly over.”
“Pretty nearly over, you think it, do you?” said the major, drily. “Then the stores are to walk up to Fort Baker by themselves, I suppose.”
“Have we got to—,” began Tom, in dismay.
“Yes, we have,” replied Major Elmfoot to his unfinished query; “and you are to knock off this job and start off on the other one at once.”