He introduced himself to me as “Lurtee Lee” (his official number was thirty-three), informed me he could “speakel Engliss,” and, having by this single utterance at once apparently proved his statement and exhausted his vocabulary, settled down into a rapt and silent adoration of my tunic buttons.

Before we had proceeded thirty yards he had offered me five francs (which he produced from the small of his back) for a single button.  At the end of one hundred yards the price had risen to seven twenty-five, and arrived upon the scene of action the Celestial grave-digger made a further bid of eight francs, two Chinese coins (value unknown) and a tract in his native tongue.  This being likewise met with a reluctant but unmistakable refusal, the work of excavation was commenced.

Now when three men are employed upon a pit some six feet square they obviously cannot all work at the same time in so confined a space.  One man must in turn stand out and rest.  His rest time may be spent in divers ways.

The elder of the two ivory carvings spent his breathing spells in philosophic reverie; the younger employed his leisure in rummaging on the neighbouring “dump” for empty tobacco tins, which he concealed about his person by a succession of feats of legerdemain (by the end of the morning I estimated him to be in possession of about thirty specimens).  Lurtee Lee filled every moment of his off time in the manufacture of a quite beautiful pencilholder—­his material an empty cartridge case, his tools a half-brick and a shoeing nail.

Slowly the morning wore on—­so slowly, indeed, that at an early period I cast aside my tunic and with spade and pick endeavoured by assistance and example to incite my labourers to “put a jerk in it.”  Noon saw the deceased mule beneath a ton or so of clay, and Lurtee Lee, whether from gratitude or sheer camaraderie, gravely presented me with the now completed pencil-holder.  No, not a sou would he accept; I was to take it as a gift.

At this moment a European N.C.O. from the Labour Camp came upon the scene and kindly offered to save me a journey by escorting Lurtee Lee and Company to quarters.  They shuffled down the road, and I turned to put on my tunic.  One button was missing.

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[Illustration:  Jock.  “MAN, IT’S AN AWFU’ PUIR DAY FOR FECHTIN’.’”

Donal’.  “AY.  BUT IT’S AN AWFU’ GUID DAY FOE GETTIN’ THE FU’ WARRUMTH AN’ COMFORT OOT O’ THE RUM RATION.”]

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MORE GERMAN FRIGHTFULNESS.

    “Hindenburg sent a great number of bug guns to General
    Boroevics.”—­Daily Paper.

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ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.

“Early in the operations a jet of water struck the Chief Officer of the Fire Brigade directly in the right eye, completely blinding him for the time; and he had to be assisted away but returned shortly after.  The Brigade are to be complimented on their work.”—­Rangoon Times.

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