On Friday a party of the enemy approached the reservoir, presumably to see if there were water in it.  But when our gunners metaphorically advised them that there was danger of falling in, the party took the hint and retired.  Later on, the Boers advised us with numerous tokens of their good-will.  While this was being done a large force of the enemy were massing at Alexandersfontein, as if they had finally decided to take Kimberley without more ado.  They deployed in battle array, preparatory to sweeping all before them.  The hooters had been relegated to oblivion and already, swan-like, sung their sad, sweet song.  Whether the silence of these atrocious mimics induced the Boer to fancy that he might surprise us, is not known.  Certain it was that we did see him, and were awaiting his coming with composure.  It was a long wait.  The mounted men got tired sitting in their saddles, and were ordered out to query the delay.  They broke up into skirmishing parties and shook their fists at the foe.  But it was all to no purpose; the foe declined to be caught with chaff, and decided “to fight another day.”

The townspeople expected a sensational sequel to the affair and assembled in thousands to greet the returning horsemen.  Mr. Cecil Rhodes, attired in duck pants, a slouch hat, and a necktie, happened to be passing in a cart at the same moment, and to his profound disgust was greeted with cheers.  He raised his hat, however, and smiled, with a sigh.

Saturday, contrary to expectation, was quiet.  There was the capture of a lot of cattle to avenge.  A good haul had been made on the Friday night—­of fine corpulent cows, worth a deal of money, dealers said.  They were worth a deal of beef, and that was the feature about them of most immediate interest.  We had had no news from anywhere for a long while; despatch riders, we conjectured, must have fallen at or into the hands of the enemy.  No matter; the British Army, colloquially speaking, knew its way about.  Thus when the shades of night were falling, the general disposition was one of willingness to wait.  The food, to be sure, lacked something of its wonted excellence; but it served (in the summer), and we did not grumble.  The shelling, too, had fallen somewhat flat.  Mafeking was more out of the way and in a worse plight than Kimberley.  Reflections of this kind begot condescension and a noble willingness to wait.

CHAPTER VI

Week ending 25th November, 1899

The commandeering of cattle was an industry now well established.  It was a pleasing spectacle, on Sunday morning, to behold the results of the preceding night’s operations as they were driven through the streets, and to witness the unconcern with which the languid quadrupeds suffered the loss of their independence.  Nor was the calm indifference with which their drovers received the compliments shouted at them by passing Imperialists one whit less admirable.