The favourite song, _Uncle Joe_, with its catching
chorus,
When Uncle Joe plays a rag upon his old banjo,
Eberybody starts aswayin to and fro,
Mummy waddles all around the cabin floor,
Yellin' "Uncle Joe, give us more! give us more!"
died away into a melancholy whimper. Sometimes one of the men would
rise, open the window and look out at a passing hamlet, where (p. 027)
lights glimmered in the houses and heavy waggons lumbered along the
uneven streets, whistle an air into the darkness and close the window
again. My mate had an electric torch--by its light we opened the
biscuit box handed in when we left the station, and biscuits and
bully-beef served to make a rather comfortless supper. At ten o'clock,
when the torch refused to burn, and when we found ourselves short of
matches, we undid the bale, spread out the hay on the floor of the
truck and lay down, wearing our sheepskin tunics and placing our
overcoats over our legs.
We must have been asleep for some time. We were awakened by the
stopping of the train and the sound of many voices outside. The door
was opened and we looked out. An officer was hurrying by, shouting
loudly, calling on us to come out. On a level space bordering the line
a dozen or more fires were blazing merrily, and dixies with some
boiling liquid were being carried backwards and forwards. A sergeant
with a lantern, one of our own men, came to our truck and clambered
inside.
"Every man get his mess tin," he shouted.
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