Practice was resumed next morning at an hour sufficiently preternatural to deprive us of a portion of our legitimate sleep.  We rose early in Kimberley—­long before the lark—­to our credit be it sung; but four o’clock was too far removed from breakfast time, and four was commonly the hour chosen by the churlish Boers to commence operations throughout the tedious months of our investment.  The whiz and the explosion were not invariably audible, but the boom was always heard.  Our “friends” rarely missed making a noise, and, to secure proper rest, this break-of-day penchant sent people early to bed.  A big gun had been placed by the enemy on the top of Wimbleton Ridge, wherefrom—­as our Garrison Orders grandiloquently stated—­“the strength of the fortress of Kimberley was tested.”  The shells landed safely on the bare veld, and even when the dissatisfied gunners brought their gun closer, no harm was done.  Wimbleton was three or four miles away, and we were not therefore in a position to reciprocate the attentions we received from it.  Another assault was subsequently made on the Premier fort.  Our seven-pounders were this time able to do a bit of bowling, and a ball was hurled at the enemy’s wickets that stopped play for the day.

There was considerable elation in town at the non-success of the Boer as an artillerist, and the belief was entertained that his stock of ammunition would soon be blown to the winds.  Nearly a hundred shells had been thrown at us, without angering or damaging anyone or anything save—­a cook and his cooking-pot!  The cook resided in a redoubt; his pot had had the lid broken, and worse still, the stew it covered driven through the bottom of the utensil, to be incinerated in the blaze beneath; and he vowed—­well, the profanity entwined in his vow of vengeance will not admit of its publication.  The whole bombardment was a grand joke.  In the Law Courts, where the Criminal Sessions were being conducted in the ordinary way, the lawyers waxed witty.  The witnesses responded.  Even the prisoners laughed sorrowfully as each abortive boom rang out.  It was a superb joke.  The judge let fall some funny things and the jury smiled—­without prejudice.  His lordship said it was a novel experience for him, as indeed it was for all of us, who were to live and learn that—­the last laugher laughs best.

The results of the Colonel’s mild and forbearing efforts to keep the natives in check were not satisfactory.  The exuberance of the Kafirs knew no bounds; they continued to glory in intoxication, and to “do” the breadth of the streets, like the gay Bohemians of more advanced civilisations.  They did more; they defied authority, and varied their pleasures with occasional bouts of house-breaking and burglary.  They appropriated such property as they could lay hands on in the sequestered houses of the West End, and played tug-of-war with mahogany that lacked the merit of being portable.  An epidemic of looting prevailed—­and fine sport it seemed to offer.