And always we progressed to the clashing of bells, for on every possible point on the trappings of the four mules and the donkey that made up the caravan and on every available point on the harness of every mule and donkey that passed us was a brass bell. For, for all my muleteers had objected to going this way, it was a caravan route to the West, and it was seldom we did not see someone on the road. Here in this ditch in the loess I realised the stern necessity for these bells, for often the way was narrow and when we could hear another caravan coming we could make arrangements to pass or to allow them to pass. There were many caravans of ragged camels, and to these my animals objected with all the spirit a life on the roads had still left in them. When we met a string of them at close quarters in the loess my white mule in the lead nearly had hysterics, and his feelings were shared, so I judged by the behaviour of the litter, by his companion behind, and they both endeavoured to commit suicide by climbing the bank, having no respect whatever for my feelings.
On these occasions, with clenched teeth and concentrated energy, my muleteer addressed himself to that leading mule:
“Now! Who's your mother? You may count yourself as dead!”
The mule evidently felt this was serious and made a desperate endeavour to get a little higher, and his attendant became sarcastic.
“Call yourself a mule! Call yourself a lord, sir!”