low, but they glanced at us with no amiable eyes, and suddenly turned away. There was no absolute discourtesy; they simply did not want to be introduced. Probably they remembered the incident at Tamai, where many of their friends were pierced with British bullets. So they slung their shields, trailed their spears and turned away.

My camel had much improved by gentle treatment and I was able to ride on ahead. Just as I neared the narrow neck of the Tamai Pass, two men and a boy climbed down toward us from a small guard house, on a lofty rock to our left. My camel man and I instinctively came to a halt, for the manner of the comers, who were fully armed, was impressive. They confronted us and immediately began questioning my camel man, after much altercation, during which I quietly leaned over my saddle and unbuttoned my revolver case, for they looked truculent and somewhat offensive. My camel man mysteriously felt about his waist belt, and eventually handed something to the foremost native, whereat he and his companions turned and began to reclimb the hill. As we went on our way, I inquired the reason of the men barring our path. "Oh," my man said, "it is simply a question of snuff." "Snuff," I exclaimed, in astonishment. "Yes; that was all they wanted—a little tobacco powder to chew." Here was a possible adventure that seemed as if it were going to end in smoke, and snuff was its finale.

After all the Suakim-Berber road, that was looked upon as full of dramatic incident—for even our military friends in Berber, when they bid us goodby, said, "It was a very sporting thing to do. Great Scott! They only wished they had the luck to come along"—was a highway without even a highwayman upon it, and apparently for the moment as pleasantly safe, minus the hostelries en route, as the road from London to York. Prom the top of Tamai Pass, 2,870 feet—though of the same name, not to be confounded with the famous battle which took place further south—we began to make a rapid descent, and the last sixty miles of our journey were spent in traversing some of the most lovely mountain scenery I think I have ever visited. Sometimes one might be passing over a Yorkshire moorland, with its purple backing of hills, for the sky was lowering and threatened rain. Then the scene would as quickly change to a Swiss valley, when, on rounding the base of a spur, one would strike a weird, volcanic-torn country whose mountains piled up in utter confusion like the waves of the stormy Atlantic; and further on we would come out upon a plain once more scattered with gigantic bowlders of porphyry and trap, out of which the monoliths of ancient Thebes might have been fashioned.

On the morning of the tenth day out from Berber, we sighted the fort and signal tower of the Egyptian post at Tambuk, on a lofty rugged rock, standing out in the middle of an immense khor. This was practically the beginning of the end of our long journey, and here we rested a few hours, once more drinking our fill of pure sparkling water from its revetted wells.

About half an hour in a northeasterly direction, after a continual descent from the Egyptian fort, we noticed, at intervals between the hills in front of us, a straight band of blue which sparkled in the sunlight. At this sight I could not refrain from giving a cheer—it was the Red Sea that glistened with the sun —for it meant so much to us. Across its shining bosom was our path to civilization and its attendant comforts, which we had been denied for many a month. Night found us steadily descending to ward the seaboard, as we neared Otao, in the vicinity of which we were to bivouac for the night. My camel nearly stumbled over an old rusty rail thrown across my path, and further on I could trace in the moonlight the dark trail of a crazy permanent way, with its rails all askew.

We were passing the old rail head of the Suakim-Berber Railway, that was started in 1885. I wondered, as I followed fifteen miles of this rusty line, a gradual slope of 1,800 feet toward the sea, whether the road I had only just traversed had ever been surveyed for a railway, and whether anybody had the slightest notion of the difficulties to be contended with in carrying out the scheme. Of course, modern engineering, with such men as Sir Benjamin Baker at the fore, can overcome any difficulty if money be no object, but who can possibly see any return for the enormous outlay an undertaking of this kind would entail?

To start with, there is one up grade of 2,870 feet within forty miles from Suakim, and the khors, through which the railway must wind, are sometimes raging torrents. To obviate this, if the line be built of trestles (timber elevations), as with the Canadian Pacific Railway, there is no wood in the country but for domestic purposes. Material, for every detail, must be imported. A smaller matter, but also somewhat important—though water apparently can be found in the khors for the digging, it is a question whether a sufficient quantity can be got at all times for the requirements of a railway. The natives themselves are often very badly off for water, as in the case of the Obak wells.

Wells run dry at odd times in this country, and can never be depended upon. Of course, water can be condensed at Suakim and stored. Further, a rival line is already in progress, which will connect Wady Halfa with Berber early this year. European goods coming by that line from Alexandria would be free of the Suez Canal dues, and certainly the directors of that line would treat freights favorably if Suakim should ever be connected with Berber by rail. As for the interior trade of the country, nearly all the population have either died from recent famine or have been killed off in the Mahdi's cause. There is no commercial center or even market to tap from one end of the road to the other.

The next morning we came in view of Suakim, the city of white coral, with her surf-beaten opalesque reefs stretching as far as the eye could follow. It seemed strange to me to be peacefully moving toward her outlying forts, for when I was last in her vicinity one could not go twenty yards outside the town without being shot at or running the gauntlet of a few spears. But here I was, slowly approaching its walls, accompanied by some of the very men who in those days would have cut my throat without the slightest hesitation. Suakim had changed much for the better; her streets were cleaner, and mostly free from Oriental smells. But these sanitary changes always take place when British officers are to the fore.

Surgeon Capt. Fleming is the medical officer responsible for the health of the town, and he has been instrumental in carrying out great reforms, especially in doing away with the tokuls and hovels, in which the Arabs herded together, and removing them to a special quarter outside the town.

The principal feature about Suakim to-day is its remarkable water supply. In 1884 our troops had to depend on condensed sea water, supplied from an old steamer anchored in the harbor, and the town folk drew an uncertain supply from the few wells outside the town. But now Suakim never wants for water, and that of the best. She even boasts of a fountain in the little square opposite the governor's house. Engineer Mason is responsible for this state of efficiency, to which Suakim owes much of her present immunity from disease. During the last twelve years immense condensing works have been erected on Quarantine Station; but, better still, about two years ago Mr. Mason discovered an apparently inexhaustible supply near Gemaiza, about three miles from the town. There is a theory—which this water finding has made a possible fact—that as coral does not grow in fresh water, the channel which allows steamers to approach close up to the town, through her miles of coral reefs, is caused by a fresh water current running from the shore.

However, on this theory Mason set to work and found a splendid supply at Fort Charter; an excavation in the khor there, about 200 feet long and 40 deep, is now an immense