meanderings.  An attack was the last thing they looked for, and Chamier got well within range of the great camp unobserved.  And then the battle began.  The enemy, taken by surprise, suffered much in their efforts to regain their trenches.  In the meantime a large party of Boers from a neighbouring arc of the circle that encompassed Kimberley were endeavouring to cut off Chamier’s retreat.  But it was with tactics of this sort that the men at Fenn’s were instructed to deal; and they did deal with them, effectually.  Unconscious of hidden danger, the unsuspecting Boers in the course of their operations drew near to the farm.  And it was then, and not till then, that into their midst came a shower of bullets that spoiled their plans.  In the melee a Boer horse (a plump one) was triumphantly captured and preserved for dissection.  The men shortly afterwards returned to town, having learnt all that they wanted to learn, and inflicted more damage than they had hoped to inflict.  They were bombarded on the journey home, but their casualities were nil.

On their entrance into Kimberley they met an enthusiastic baker (with his breadcart), who was not in a position to confer V.C.’s all round; but he bombarded each member of the force with something quite as precious, namely, a loaf of bread.  The “regulation” allowance was only a paltry fourteen ounces, which the lightest of Light Horsemen was capable of demolishing for breakfast.  The generous baker—­Martial Law and proclamations notwithstanding—­could not resist the opportunity of throwing the beam of a good deed on this naughty world; and when he found he had not sufficient loaves to go round, so far from regretting his quixotic rashness, he galloped back to his bakehouse for more.  It was a graceful act—­reckless, heroic—­and the recipients of the dough were not lacking in gratitude.  But, alas! the Commissariat were; they bristled with anger!  How dare a baker be generous in the teeth of the penalties attached to kindness and such weaknesses.  How dare he flout so outrageously the canons of Martial Law.  Who was Czar!  Was Kekewich king!  Was Caesar (Imperial Caesar) dead and turned to—­flour!  The offence was unprecedented in its heinousness.  Threats of prosecution followed; but the offending baker apologised; and though the more rigid of our disciplinarians, given their way, would have roasted him in his own oven, the flexible ones deemed shooting too good for him, and accepted his apology by way of compromise.

But Wednesday will be remembered for more than a sortie, and the baker’s rebellion that ensued.  On that day was formally established our celebrated “Soup Kitchen.”  Among the sheaves of suggestive letters to the Editor, for the better management, economy, and distribution of supplies, the epistles relating to the need of a soup department had attracted most attention.  The idea was not a bad one; it was practicable, and had much to commend it.  But still the feeling of the people was that so long as they were allowed an unmixed ration of the roast beef of old England or young Australia (same Empire) it was preferable that they should be permitted to make their own soup—­a poor thing, perhaps; but their own.