The big day came round in due course; we had a big thunderstorm, but in no other respect was Monday large.  The Boers signalised the occasion by the inauguration of a new plan of campaign, which, if the gods were kind, would soon compel the surrender of the Diamond City.  The plan—­like all great plans—­was simple; a dozen guns were trained on Kenilworth, where browsed the precious bullocks upon whose safety hung the fate of Kimberley.  To kill them all was the end in view.  Inspirited by the thought of the hunger and the “fall” that would follow, the enemy poured forth a liberal fusillade upon Kenilworth.  The cattle-guards, exposed to grave danger, never shirked their duty.  It was not until the Boers had well warmed to their work that we managed by the play of a Maxim to cool their ardour.  The new departure was a failure.  A most incomprehensible bombardment was subsequently opened on an isolated place, called “the Brickfields,” where no animate thing above the bite of a mosquito lived, moved, or had its being.

The exigencies of our position necessitated the cultivation of early rising; but the Boers had, so far, invariably set the ball rolling; they had acquired a knack of irritating us in their choice of unexpected moments for starting operations day by day.  On Tuesday the practicability of reversing this order of things was tested by our gunners.  The effect was not clearly apparent, but our shell excited commotion—­it wakened somebody, for the Boers could be seen moving about.  Retaliation soon followed; on the Brickfields again, a choice of objective which was quite inexplicable.  There was nothing there to hit but bricks.  The enemy—­perhaps obsessed by the thought that he had filled us with terror—­may have assumed that the place was being used as a refuge.  Some believed that the Town Hall was aimed at, for our confidence in the skill of the Boer gunners had yet to ripen fully.  The firing was continued for some hours until the venue was changed to Kenilworth, with no better success than before.

We had a fair supply of ammunition for such guns as we possessed, and in order to make it last as long as possible, economy was rigorously observed.  One day, however, De Beers astonished the Colonel by offering to manufacture shells, ad lib.  The Colonel smiled; he was inclined to regard the proposal as a joke of the Company’s Chairman.  But he was persuaded to permit the test of a few samples made in the workshops, and lo!—­to his infinite astonishment the results were all that could be desired.  The missiles conducted themselves properly, and—­contrary to “expert” opinion—­burst at the right moments.  There being plenty of the requisite raw material, a hundred shells were made in a day.  This was a great advantage and was appreciated to the full.  Mr. Rhodes knew the Boers loved him, and, by way of reciprocity, he had engraved on the base of each shell:  “With compliments from C.J.R.”  His initials sufficed; the Boers knew him well.  The conceit excited much mirth in town, as it doubtless did among the enemy.