A closer view, however, would have made clear to him that it was no animal, but some species of tank, coated and covered with mud, accompanied by three similarly encased attendants, probably human beings, staggering and skidding about in its immediate vicinity.  From time to time, one of these three would mount on the head or fore-part of this object, with the effect of causing it to slide and plunge forward for a few yards to stick again and again, snorting and panting and unable apparently to make any further progress.

A detective, equipped with a certain amount of motor knowledge, might have been able to discern that the mud-encrusted monster was a Ford car.  A tailor, whose technical training would help him to penetrate the disguise of thick slime, might have been able to recognize by the cut of their clothes that the first of the three figures was an R.A.F. driver and the other two were naval officers.  As a matter of fact one of these forlorn representatives of our boasted sea-power was Brown, and the other one, although I think he would have hesitated to swear to his identity at the time, was the unfortunate writer of these chronicles.

There was no doubt about it; we were done.

“At the present rate of progress we shall reach Baghdad in about ten days,” said the driver, “and it’s getting worse.”

[Illustration:  A STREET IN KHADAMAIN]

A few more hours’ rain and no power on earth would move the car an inch.  We knew from experience that nothing could be done for four or five days, so we faced the situation philosophically, shouldered a bag each and staggered in the sliding mud in the direction of the Khan.  We started off with no illusions as to our fate if we encountered rain, and were therefore quite prepared for this.  There was nothing for it but to camp out somehow until the sun had been given a chance.  The fact that we had been able to reach this point with the Khan and railway close at hand was a piece of luck for which we were thankful.

Brown was by far the best exponent of this art of walking in mud while carrying weight.  The driver was quite good at it, having had considerable practice on similar occasions.  I was uncompromisingly bad.  I sat down three or four times to the driver’s once.  Brown did not sit down at all, but he did some amazing movements in skidding, reminding one in a somewhat vague way of the tramp cyclist of the music-hall stage.

I have often thought since these days of mud in Mesopotamia that a vast fortune might be made by some one who could find a commercial use for a substance, as slippery as oil, as indelible in staining properties as walnut juice, and as adhesive as fish glue.  Large quantities of Mesopotamian mud could be shipped to London and made up into tubes.  Then all that would be necessary would be three distinctive labels.  One could describe it as a wonderful lubricant and cheap substitute for machine oil.  Another could proclaim to the world a new washable distemper.  A third could laud it as a marvellous paste or cement that would adhere to anything whatsoever.