Hassan Khan, with chattering teeth and severe neuralgia, muffled in
my 'fisherman's hood' under his turban, was trying to do his work
with his unfailing pluck. Mando was shedding futile tears over wet
furze which would not light, the small wet corrie was dotted over
with the Amritsar men sheltering under rocks and nursing hopeless
fires, and fifty mules and horses, with dejected heads and dripping
tails, and their backs to the merciless wind, were attempting to pick
some food from scanty herbage already nibbled to the root. My tent
was a picture of grotesque discomfort. The big stones had not been
picked out from the gravel, the bed stood in puddles, the thick horse
blanket was draining over the one chair, the servant's spare clothing
and stores were on the table, the yaks' loads of wet hay and the
soaked grain sack filled up most of the space; a wet candle sputtered
and went out, wet clothes dripped from the tent hook, and every now
and then Hassan Khan looked in with one eye, gasping out, 'Mem Sahib,
I can no light the fire!' Perseverance succeeds eventually, and cups
of a strong stimulant made of Burroughes and Wellcome's vigorous
'valoid' tincture of ginger and hot water, revived the men all round.
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