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 which always appeals at once to the soldier's heart—a barrel, of beer! Having obtained leave to sell to the men, the amount being limited to a pint a man, they very soon came to the end of their barrel, no doubt with a handsome profit to themselves. The cask bore the homely and familiar name of "Bass," but the liquid that issued from the tap would have astonished any member of that excellent firm; it was dark in colour, as thick as pea-soup, and as sweet as treacle—which last, indeed, it rather resembled. But Thomas Atkins is not to be denied; beer is beer to him, and he is not over particular about the taste, more especially when the cask is labelled "Bass," and he is four thousand miles away from home and in the middle of the desert.

Having watered our horses and posted our guard and sentries, we had another turn at the "soup," and then lay down for the night in happy ignorance of any danger. We heard a few shots about eleven o'clock in the direction of the 70th camp, and in the morning were told they had had two men wounded and one killed. This was the first of those memorable night attacks which were afterwards the cause of so much misery to us. I don't think any of us got much sleep after our hard day's work, for the