away fighting us, “as was his duty.”  Williams was quite sentimental over this episode.  The Canadians came round to our fire again, and we had another long talk.  They said there were very few Transvaalers in this army.  The Free Staters hate them.  The remains we found in the gun-emplacement at Slabbert’s Nek were those of Lieutenant Muller, a German artillerist.  The Boers always had plenty of our harness, stores, ammunition, etc.

July 30.—­After stables Williams and I went foraging in the town and secured scones, a fowl (for a shilling), another cabbage, and best of all, some change, a commodity for which one has to scheme and plot.  We managed it by first getting into a store and buying towels, spoons, note-books, etc., up to ten shillings, and then cajoling and bluffing a ten-shilling bit out of the unwilling store-keeper.  This was changed by the lady who sold us the fowl, an Englishwoman.  On our return there was harness-cleaning, interrupted by a sudden order to move, but only to shift camp about a mile.  This is always annoying, because at halts you always collect things such as fuel and meal and pots, which are impossible to carry with you.  Of course this is no matter, if regular marching and fighting are on hand, but just for shifting camp it is a nuisance.  However, much may be done by determination.  I induced the Collar-maker to take our flour on his waggon; marmalade, meal, etc., were hastily decanted into small tins, and stuffed into wallets, and just before starting Williams furtively tossed the fuel-sack into a buck-waggon, and hitched up the Kaffir pot somewhere underneath.  I strung a jug on my saddle, which, what with feed-bags (contents by no means confined to oats), and muzzles, with meat and things in them, is rather Christmas-tree-like.  We marched through the town, and to the base of a kopje about a mile away, where preparations for a big camp had been made.  It is confirmed that the Boers have surrendered en masse, and they are to be brought here.

After we had unharnessed, I got leave to go back to town and send a joint telegram home from a dozen of us.  The battery has a telegraphic address at home from which wires are forwarded to our relations.  The charge for soldiers is only 2s. a word, so a dozen of us can say “quite well” to our relations for about 2s. 8d.  The official at the office said the wire was now open, but that he had no change.  However, he produced 5s. when I gave him L2.  It was a little short, but the change was valuable.  He said that to pass the censor it must be signed by an officer, so I had to look for one.  After some dusty tramping, I found a captain of the Staffords, saluted, and made my request.  We were, I suppose, about equal in social station, but I suddenly—­I don’t know why—­felt what a gulf the service put between us.  He was sleek and clean, and talking about the hour of his dinner to another one, just as if he were at a club.  I was dirty,