with a force of more than 4,000 fighting men and followers.

Before the second advance to Gyantse the spring crops had begun to
appear. Without them we could not have advanced. All other local produce
on the road was exhausted. That is to say, for 160 miles, with the
important exception of wayside fodder, we subsisted entirely on our own
supplies. The mules carried their own grain, and no more. Gyantse once
reached, the Tibetan Government granaries and stores from the
monasteries produced enough to carry us on. But besides the transport
mules, there were 100 Maxim and battery mules, as well as some 200
mounted infantry ponies, and at least 100 officers' mounts, to be fed,
and these carried nothing--contributed nothing to the stomach of the
army.

How were these beasts to be fed, and how was the whole apparatus of an
army to be carried along, when every additional transport animal
was a tax on the resources of the transport? There were two
possible solutions, each at first sight equally absurd and
impracticable:--wheeled transport in Tibet, or animals that did not
require feeding. The Supply and Transport men were resourceful and
fortunate enough to provide both. It was due to the light ekka and that
providentially ascetic beast, the yak, that we were able to reach Lhasa.

The ekkas were constructed in the plains, and carried by coolies from
the cart-road at Rungpo eighty miles over the snow passes to Kamparab on
the Phari Plain. The carrying capacity of these light carts is 400
pounds, two and a half times that of a mule, and there is only one mouth
to feed. They were the first vehicles ever seen in Tibet, and they saved
the situation.

The ekkas worked over the Phari and Tuna plains, and down the Nyang Chu
Valley as far as Kangma. They were supplemented by the yaks.

The yak is the most extraordinary animal Nature has provided the
transport officer in his need. He carries 160 pounds, and consumes
nothing. He subsists solely on stray blades of grass, tamarisk, and
tufts of lichen, that he picks up on the road. He moves slowly, and
wears a look of ineffable resignation. He is the most melancholy
disillusioned beast I have seen, and dies on the slightest provocation.
The red and white tassels and favours of cowrie-shells the Tibetans hang
about his neck are as incongruous on the poor beast as gauds and
frippery on the heroine of a tragedy.

If only he were dependable, our transport difficulties would be reduced
to