Early in June, twenty-one men and four officers of the Kimberley Light Horse rode out thirty miles from Potchefstroom, and summoned the town of Klerksdorp to surrender.  It is a town of fair size, predominantly Dutch, of course, but with a minority of English residents.  The audacious demand of the Liliputian force was acceded to.  They rode in, and the British flag was hoisted.  With charming effrontery it was represented that the twenty-one were only the forerunners of an overwhelming force, and that resistance was useless.  The Dutch were cowed or acquiescent, and a splendid reception was given to the army of occupation; cheering, flag-waving, and refreshments galore.  Their commanding officer mounts the Town Hall steps, and addresses the townspeople, congratulating them on their loyalty, announcing the speedy end of the war, hinting at the hosts of British soon to be expected, and praising the Mayor, a brother of General Cronje, for his wise foresight in submitting; in return for which he said he would try to obtain the release of the General from Lord Roberts.  The troop is then escorted by a frantic populace to their camping ground; willing hands off-saddle the horses, while others ply the tired heroes with refreshments.  The town is in transports of joy.  Days pass.  The news spreads, and burghers come in from all sides to deliver up their arms to the Captain.  He soon has no fewer than twelve hundred rifles, of which he makes a glorious bonfire, thus disarming at one stroke a number of Boers fifty times greater than his own force.  There is no sign of the overwhelming forces of the British, but their early arrival is daily predicted, and the delay explained away.  Meanwhile, the twenty-one live in clover, eating and drinking the best of everything, and overwhelmed with offers of marriage from adoring maidens.  Luxury threatens to sap their manhood.  Guards and patrols are unsteady in their gait; vigilance slackens.  A grand concert is given one night, during which the whole army of occupation is inside one room.  Two guards are outside, but these are Dutch police.  At this moment a handful of determined enemies could have ended the occupation, and re-hoisted the Boer flag.  Weeks pass, still the British do not come, but the twenty-one hold sway, no doubt by virtue of the moral superiority of the dominant race.

But at last their whole edifice of empire tumbles into ruin with the same dramatic suddenness with which it rose.  The ubiquitous De Wet marches up and surrounds the town with an overwhelming force; the inevitable surrender is made, and the Boer flag flies again over Klerksdorp after six glorious weeks of British rule by a score or so of audacious troopers.