of your convoys; it will be all right when we get it.”  De Wet himself was very pleasant to them, and took good care they got their proper rations.  They rode always on waggons, and he spoke feelingly of the horrible monotony of the jolt, jolt, jolt, from morning to night.  They nearly always had a British force close on their heels, and no sooner had they outspanned for a rest than it would be “Inspan—­trek.”  “Up you get, Khakis; the British are coming!” Then pom-pom-pom, whew-w-w-w, as shells came singing over the rear-guard.  At these interesting moments they used to put the prisoners in the extreme rear, so that the British if they saw them, could not fire.  He accounted for the superior speed of the Boers by their skill in managing their convoy; every Boer is a born driver (in fact, most of their black drivers had deserted), and they take waggons over ground we should shudder at, leaving the roads if need be, and surmounting impossible ascents.  Again they confine their transport to the limits of strict necessity, and are not cumbered with all the waggon-loads of officers’ kit which our generals choose to allow.  Their rapidity in inspanning is marvellous; all the cattle may be scattered about grazing, but in five minutes from the word “Trek!” they are inspanned and ready.  Their horses, he said, were wretched, and many rode donkeys; how they managed to get about so well he never could understand, but supposed the secret of their success was this body of well-mounted, reliable scouts, who saved all unnecessary travelling to the main body.  A very large proportion of the Boer force were foreigners—­French, Germans, Dutch, Russians, Norwegians.

The soul of this tent is Jock, an Argyll and Sutherland Highlander.  He was wounded at Modder River, and is now nominally suffering from the old wound, but there is nothing really the matter with him; and as soon as the Sister’s back is turned, he turns catherine wheels up the ward on his hands.  His great topic is the glory and valour of the Highland Brigade, discoursing on which he becomes in his enthusiasm unintelligibly Scotch.  It is the great amusement of the rest of us to get rises out of him on the subject, and furious arguments rage on the merits of various regiments.  He is as simple as a child, and really seems to believe that the Highland Brigade has won the war single-handed.  He is no hand at argument, and gets crushing controversial defeats from the others, especially some Berks men, but he always takes refuge at last “in the thun rred line,” as his last entrenchment.  “Had ye ever a thun rred line?” he asks, and they quail.  The matter came to a crisis yesterday, when one of them produced a handbook on British regiments and their histories.  The number of “honours” owned by each regiment had been a hotly contested point, and they now sat down and counted them.  The Royal Berks had so many—­Minden, Waterloo, Salamanca, Vittoria, Sevastopol, etc.  In breathless silence those accredited to the Argyll and Sutherland