“December 2, 1899.

     “MY DEAR GORDON,

“I am at the laager.  General Snyman will not give me a pass unless Colonel Baden-Powell will exchange me for a Mr. Petrus Viljoen.  I am sure this is impossible, so I do not ask him formally.  I am in a great fix, as they have very little meal left at Setlagoli or the surrounding places.  I am very kindly looked after here.”

I then went to sleep in my strange surroundings, with small hope of any success from my application to Mafeking.  The next day, Sunday, was observed by both parties as a day of rest.  About seven one of the nurses brought me a cup of coffee, and then I proceeded to dress as best I might.  So clearly did that horrid little room imprint itself on my memory that I seem to see it as I write.  The dusty bare boards, cracked and loose in places, had no pretence to any acquaintance with a scrubbing-brush, and very little with a broom.  A rickety old chest of drawers stood in one corner, presumably filled with hospital necessaries, from the very strong smell of drugs emanating from it, and from the fact that the nurses would bustle in and rummage for some desired article, giving glimpses of the confusion inside.  On the top of the drawers were arranged a multitude of medicine-bottles, half full and half empty, cracked and whole.  The broken old washstand had been of valuable service during the night, as with it I barricaded the door, innocent of any lock or key.  When I was dressed, I walked out on to the tiny stoep, surrounded by a high paling.  My attention was at once attracted to a woman in a flood of tears, and presently the cause of her weeping was explained, as an elderly man came round the corner of the house with both his hands roughly tied up with bandages covered with blood—­a sight which caused the young woman to sob with renewed vigour.  After a little talk with the man, who, in spite of his injuries, seemed perfectly well, the latter went away, and I entered into conversation with the weeping female, whom I found to speak good English, and to be the daughter of the wounded warrior, Hoffman by name and German by birth.  They were Transvaal subjects, and her father had been among the first of the burghers to turn out when hostilities threatened.  She then proceeded to tell me that she and her mother and a numerous collection of young brothers and sisters had trekked in from their home in the Transvaal to spend the Sunday in the laager with their father.  On their arrival early that morning, they learnt, to their horror, that he had been wounded, or, rather, injured, late the night before, as the mutilated state of his hands arose from a shell exploding in the high-velocity Krupp gun just as he was loading it.  She told me her father was one of the most valued artillerymen on the Boer side, and that he was also an adept in the art of making fireworks, his last triumph in this line having been at Mafeking on the occasion of the