Whether it was that the enemy was engrossed in a vain search for the missing cattle—­if they were missed at all—­he gave no expression to his indignation next morning.  Not until lunch time had we any indications of annoyance.  The vials of Boer wrath were then let loose in earnest, and from the Lazaretto Ridge we were peppered furiously.  The shells fell thickly in the principal thoroughfares—­eighty or ninety of them—­one for every bullock “pinched.”  Fortunately again, the assault was unattended by loss of life.  The tin walls of Saint Cyprian’s Church were perforated by pieces of shell.  Another hissing monster dropped in Dutoitspan Road in front of a tobacco-shop, but thanks to the picturesque array of pipes and pouches in the window the missile, as if it had an eye for art, refrained from bursting; instead it made a little grave to the depth of several feet and buried itself with honour.  Three or four buildings were struck, and a funny man spread an alarming rumour relative to the loss of eighteen lives in the Queen’s Hotel!  On enquiry it transpired that two cats had met their doom.  The victims had been serenading in an out-house when the fatal missile (very properly) slit their throats.  The dear people of the neighbourhood affected little sympathy for the slain whose orgies had kept them awake at night.  Indeed a wish was expressed that a few more of the cult might get hissed off the world’s stage.  And curiously enough a second shell did fall at the hotel; but the feline minstrels were out of the way—­and their well-wishers so much in it that they made peace with the cats at once.

The night had been dark, with vivid flashes of lightning to brighten it now and then, and nature’s artillery had rolled until the Boers on Wednesday morning took Up the refrain with theirs.  One poor old man was wounded in the arm as he lay sleeping in his bed.  Houses here and there up Newton way were damaged, the occupiers escaping injury.  The firing went on for several hours until heavy rains came down and put a stop to it.

A further note was received from Mr. Wessels.  The Dutch folk in our midst were fairly numerous and not only as liable to laceration as the British, but, judging by our records so far, rather more so.  They had experienced rank bad luck altogether, and a little bird may have whispered it to Wessels.  However that may be, the Commandant reiterated his former request in their regard.  Now, Colonel Kekewich was only too willing to accede to the request, in proof of which he wrote up a special proclamation on the subject.  But the Dutch adhered to their first determination; there is no place like home; leave it they would not.  Mr. Wessels, they insinuated, would not find them new houses and gardens; nor too much to eat—­not even half a pound of meat (perhaps).  There were only three or four families prepared to pack up and with more reluctance than exultation take their departure.