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You
can
work
it
out
by
Fractions
or
by
simple
Rule
of
Three
,
But
the
way
of
Tweedle-dum
is
not
the
way
of
Tweedle-dee
.
You
can
twist
it
,
you
can
turn
it
,
you
can
plait
it
till
you
drop
,
But
the
way
of
Pilly
Winky
's
not
the
way
of
Winkie
Pop
!
It
had
been
raining
heavily
for
one
whole
month
--
raining
on
a
camp
of
thirty
thousand
men
and
thousands
of
camels
,
elephants
,
horses
,
bullocks
,
and
mules
all
gathered
together
at
a
place
called
Rawal
Pindi
,
to
be
reviewed
by
the
Viceroy
of
India
.
He
was
receiving
a
visit
from
the
Amir
of
Afghanistan
--
a
wild
king
of
a
very
wild
country
.
The
Amir
had
brought
with
him
for
a
bodyguard
eight
hundred
men
and
horses
who
had
never
seen
a
camp
or
a
locomotive
before
in
their
lives
--
savage
men
and
savage
horses
from
somewhere
at
the
back
of
Central
Asia
.
Every
night
a
mob
of
these
horses
would
be
sure
to
break
their
heel
ropes
and
stampede
up
and
down
the
camp
through
the
mud
in
the
dark
,
or
the
camels
would
break
loose
and
run
about
and
fall
over
the
ropes
of
the
tents
,
and
you
can
imagine
how
pleasant
that
was
for
men
trying
to
go
to
sleep
.
My
tent
lay
far
away
from
the
camel
lines
,
and
I
thought
it
was
safe
.
But
one
night
a
man
popped
his
head
in
and
shouted
,
"
Get
out
,
quick
!
They
're
coming
!
My
tent
's
gone
!
"
I
knew
who
"
they
"
were
,
so
I
put
on
my
boots
and
waterproof
and
scuttled
out
into
the
slush
.
Little
Vixen
,
my
fox
terrier
,
went
out
through
the
other
side
;
and
then
there
was
a
roaring
and
a
grunting
and
bubbling
,
and
I
saw
the
tent
cave
in
,
as
the
pole
snapped
,
and
begin
to
dance
about
like
a
mad
ghost
.
A
camel
had
blundered
into
it
,
and
wet
and
angry
as
I
was
,
I
could
not
help
laughing
.
Then
I
ran
on
,
because
I
did
not
know
how
many
camels
might
have
got
loose
,
and
before
long
I
was
out
of
sight
of
the
camp
,
plowing
my
way
through
the
mud
.
At
last
I
fell
over
the
tail-end
of
a
gun
,
and
by
that
knew
I
was
somewhere
near
the
artillery
lines
where
the
cannon
were
stacked
at
night
.
As
I
did
not
want
to
plowter
about
any
more
in
the
drizzle
and
the
dark
,
I
put
my
waterproof
over
the
muzzle
of
one
gun
,
and
made
a
sort
of
wigwam
with
two
or
three
rammers
that
I
found
,
and
lay
along
the
tail
of
another
gun
,
wondering
where
Vixen
had
got
to
,
and
where
I
might
be
.
Just
as
I
was
getting
ready
to
go
to
sleep
I
heard
a
jingle
of
harness
and
a
grunt
,
and
a
mule
passed
me
shaking
his
wet
ears
.
He
belonged
to
a
screw-gun
battery
,
for
I
could
hear
the
rattle
of
the
straps
and
rings
and
chains
and
things
on
his
saddle
pad
.
The
screw-guns
are
tiny
little
cannon
made
in
two
pieces
,
that
are
screwed
together
when
the
time
comes
to
use
them
.
They
are
taken
up
mountains
,
anywhere
that
a
mule
can
find
a
road
,
and
they
are
very
useful
for
fighting
in
rocky
country
.
Behind
the
mule
there
was
a
camel
,
with
his
big
soft
feet
squelching
and
slipping
in
the
mud
,
and
his
neck
bobbing
to
and
fro
like
a
strayed
hen
's
.
Luckily
,
I
knew
enough
of
beast
language
--
not
wild-beast
language
,
but
camp-beast
language
,
of
course
--
from
the
natives
to
know
what
he
was
saying
.
