A little later a shadowy figure appears by your cot and says, "_Chai, bwana_" which means, "Tea, master." You turn over and slowly sip the hot tea, while outside in the clear morning air the sound of voices grows and grows until you know that eighty or a hundred men are busy getting their breakfasts.

The crackling of many fires greets your ears and the pungent smell of wood fires salutes your nostrils.

You look at your watch and it is perhaps five or half past.

The air is still cold and you hasten to slip out of your cot.
It is never considered wise to bathe in the morning here.
Your shoes or boots are by your bed, all oiled and cleaned, and your puttees are neatly rolled, ready to be wound around you from the tops of the shoes to the knee.

Your clean flannels (one always wears heavy flannel underclothes and heavy woolen socks in this climate) are laid out and your clothes for the day's march are ready for you.