A concert was given in the evening at the Reservoir camp, the takings (L20) going to the Widows’ and Orphans’ Committee.  There was no lack of entertainment at all the camps, although the men did not feel so cheerful as their comic singing was intended to denote.  Numerous presents continued to find their way to the redoubts.  Cigars and tobacco, fruits from the De Beers horticultural department, and an odd pint of wine from the casks of the Colussus were periodically received to brighten the lives of the citizen soldiers.  An odd bottle, or rather an odd dozen, of “Cape Smoke” found entry at times.  Impure though the commodity was—­there is no smoke without fire—­a little of it on a raw morning was not amiss.  Some erred, unfortunately, in not confining themselves to a little of the lava.  Eruptions often ensued.  One gentleman, on a certain occasion, was so inflamed with martial ardour after a too copious indulgence in the “brandy” that it resulted in his discharge from the Town Guard—­for over-doing his duty.  He was one night on sentry duty and challenged an officer, one officer, whom he failed to identify, or compute—­“in the dark,” as he explained.  Having courteously yelled out to the intruder to halt, and on being quietly assured that “a friend” went there, the alert sentry presented arms and called in solemn, stentorian accents upon his friend to “advance within six inches of the muzzle of this rifle and give the countersign!” It was due to a lucky accident that the officer knew the countersign, and was not buried next day.  Another genial tippler disported himself during business hours in less serious fashion.  He was not so fastidiously exact about killing his man by inches.  On the contrary, when his “friend” had proclaimed himself a friend indeed, he was superciliously informed:  “You have got to say ‘Tiger’ before you come in here!” “Tiger” was the countersign; and it was only the humour of the incident that enabled the worthy sentry to keep the Marshal’s baton in his knapsack.

Under the direction of Major Gorle, the Army Service Corps was extremely energetic in the general regulation of foodstuffs.  Colonel Kekewich seemed bent on starving us.  Now, if there remained no less drastic alternative to surrender he could have starved us by consent.  To the principle of the ordinance there was no open opposition.  But it was ridiculous to start starving us so soon, and we were far from imagining that it should ever be necessary to start at all.  The Commissariat was being largely extended, and the Colonel had drafted another proclamation.  He had already taken care that the flour should be made to stretch for years—­the colour of the bread never permitted us to forget that—­and he now commanded that all the tea and coffee in town must be submitted for analysis.  Every ounce of chicory in the city, he proclaimed, must be handed over to the Commissariat within twenty-four hours; or, by Jingo!—­Martial Law!  The