But there was no first shot; the cautious Boer had not made up his mind to beat us just yet.  By a series of elaborate movements he had affected to gird his loins for a swoop that nothing could withstand, and adroitly managed the while to capture some oxen and horses—­the property of our local Sanitary Conductors.  When this was discovered, a batch of mounted men were deputed to ride out and question the legality of the proceedings.  The enemy, nothing loth, opened the arguments themselves with a pungent volley, and when our side proceeded to reply, through a similar medium, the other would not listen.  Later in the afternoon the Light Horse went out again, and got near enough to unlimber their guns and to plant a few shells among the Boers who guarded the route to the Reservoir.  In this skirmish one of the Cape Police was killed—­a regrettable circumstance which brought our list of deaths up to five.

The enemy still kept showing signs of activity, and of resolution to make it not only impossible to get out of Kimberley, but also unpleasant to live in it.  They brought a gun as close as they dared to the De Beers Mine, and impudently endeavoured to shell it.  They seized a second position at Kamfers Dam, and placed a second gun there.  We had good people in Kimberley who asserted that the gentle Boer knew not how to use a gun; that he considered it so much lumber, an incumbrance.  These were apart from the school given to postulate that the farmers had no guns to use.  No need to say that both theories were dispelled, by sight as well as by hearing.  Much attention was devoted to Otto’s Kopje—­our most exposed position—­and many missiles dropped dangerously close to it.  They burst, too, though nobody was hit.  But they burst; and that was a visible fact that astounded a host of knowing people.  There was a story in circulation about a respectable refugee from Johannesburg who, irritated by the fallacies that passed for facts in regard to Boer armaments and resources, always made it a point to speak the truth on the subject.  He was an Englishman, quite loyal, and stimulated by a glass of beer was one evening in his boarding house unfolding the facts of the case.  He discoursed fluently on the calibre and the accumulation of modern instruments of warfare he had beheld in Pretoria with his own eyes.  His candour nettled his listeners, and on going outside he was threatened by one with pains and penalties if he did not curb his tongue and be careful.  Another gentleman indulged in some vigorous criticism of spies and traitors in the abstract; while a third produced a pocket-book and took down the name of the frank offender, with a view to having him arrested.  They went on in this strain until quite eight or ten muscular men had formed a cordon round the transgressor.  “What did I say?” he enquired, plaintively.  “You said a lot too much,” was the crushing retort.  One Ajax finally removed his coat and invited the Radical to a fistic encounter in the garden—­if he felt aggrieved.  The challenge was declined, more in sorrow than in anger, and the clamour subsided.