No matter how miserable people in England were then, they will never realize fully what it meant to pass those black months in the midst of a Dutch population; one felt oneself indeed alone amongst foes.  Smarting under irritation and annoyance, I decided to go myself to Vryburg—­Dutch town though it had become—­and see if I could not ascertain the truth of these various reports, which I feared might filter into Mafeking and depress the garrison.  Mr. Keeley did not disapprove of my trip, as he was as anxious as myself to know how the land lay, and he arranged that Mrs. Keeley’s brother, Mr. Coleman, should drive me there in a trap and pair of ponies.  For the benefit of the gossips, I stated as an ostensible reason for my visit that I had toothache.  I was much excited at the prospect of visiting the Boer headquarters in that part of the country, and seeing with my own eyes the Transvaal flag flying in the town of a British colony.  Therefore I thought nothing of undertaking a sixty miles’ drive in broiling heat and along a villainous road.  The drive itself was utterly uneventful.  We passed several Dutch farmhouses, many of them untenanted, owing to the so-called loyal colonial owners having flocked to the Transvaal flag at Vryburg.  All these houses, distinguished by their slovenly and miserable appearance, were built of rough brick or mud, with tiny windows apparently added as an afterthought, in any position, regardless of symmetry.  Towards sundown we arrived at a roadside store, where we were kindly entertained for the night by the proprietors, a respectable Jewish couple.

About five miles from Vryburg a party of thirty horsemen appeared on the brow of the hill; these were the first Boers I had seen mounted, in fighting array, and I made sure they would ride up and ask our business; but apparently we were not interesting enough in appearance, for they circled away in another direction.  The road now descended into a sort of basin or hollow, wherein lay the snug little town of Vryburg, with its neat houses and waving trees, and beyond it we could see the white tents of the Boer laager.  A young Dutchman had recently described Vryburg to me as a town which looked as if it had gone for a walk and got lost, and as we drove up to it I remembered his words, and saw that his simile was rather an apt one.  There seemed no reason, beyond its site in a sheltered basin, why Vryburg should have been chosen for the capital of British Bechuanaland.  The railway was at least a mile away on the east, and so hidden was the town that, till you were close on it, you could barely see the roofs of the houses.  Then suddenly the carriage drove into the main street, which boasted of some quite respectable shops.  The first thing that attracted our notice was the Court House, almost hidden in trees, through which glimmered the folds of the gaudy Dutch standard.  Before the court were armed Boers, apparently sentries, whilst others were passing in and out or lounging outside.  Another group were busy poring over a notice affixed on a tree, which we were told was the latest war news: