the street, was a huge strip of canvas flung over a stout horizontal beam and guyed down at either side; beneath were six tables made on a simple rustic frame with oilcloth tops and furnished along either side with stout log perches on which the second relay of breakfasters were already balancing themselves. Opposite every place there was laid an outfit of eating implements, consisting of one tin plate, one tin cup, one knife, one fork and one spoon. These must serve the holder for his entire meal, and later, as we grew accustomed to the etiquette, it was astonishing how simple and natural it seemed to save from the influence of porridge a place large enough for bacon, and to keep an unbaconized surface for final prunes or pie. At that, my first breakfast, however, I was hard put to it, what with the simplicity of the service, and what with my struggles to preserve the equilibrium of the porridge dish on the curving surface of the oilcloth, as well as my own on the diner's perch.
From the mess-tent to the cook-tent below was a short distance, and the speed with which the various courses came on was only equalled by the rapidity with which the food disappeared. The chief cook was Mok-Hen, an old retainer of the President, and familiarly known as Mock Turtle, who had under him two China boys from the Lake Louise Chalet. Mok and his staff served only eatables, tea being handed out by more or less active volunteers, from a small tent sacred to the ladies, which stood just above the mess-tent.
The mess-tent practically divided the main camp in two. It stood almost spanning the main street, with the cook-tent below and official tents above. To the right and on the same level as the mess-tent were the living tents of the President and Secretary, and beyond these, scattered along the woody mountain side, were the ladies' quarters. The official tents of the President and Secretary stood at the upper end of an open space, the forum of the camp. Of this space the most important part was a big
