He was able to assume very various roles with “Fregoli-like” rapidity; for one evening, soon after the audience had dispersed, suddenly there was an alarm of a night attack.  Firing commenced all round the town, which was a most unusual occurrence for a Sunday night.  In an instant the man who had been masquerading as a buffoon was again the commanding officer, stern and alert.  The tramp of many feet was heard in the streets, which proved to be the reserve squadron of the Protectorate Regiment, summoned in haste to headquarters.  A Maxim arrived, as by magic, from somewhere else, the town guard were ordered to their places, and an A.D.C. was sent to the hall, where a little dance for the poor overworked hospital nurses was in full swing, abruptly to break up this pleasant gathering.  It only remained for our defenders to wish the Boers would come on, instead of which the attack ended in smoke, after two hours’ furious volleying, and by midnight all was quiet again.

During the latter part of this tedious time Colonel Plumer and his gallant men were but thirty miles away, having encompassed a vast stretch of dreary desert from distant Bulawayo.  This force had been “under the stars” since the previous August, and had braved hardships of heat, fever districts, and flooded rivers, added to many a brush with the enemy.  These trusty friends were only too anxious to come to our assistance, but a river rolled between—­a river composed of deep fortified trenches, of modern artillery, and of first-rate marksmen with many Mausers.  One day Colonel Plumer sent in an intrepid scout to consult with Colonel Baden-Powell.  This gentleman had a supreme contempt for bullets, and certainly did not know the meaning of the word “fear,” but the bursting shells produced a disagreeable impression on him.  “Does it always go on like that?” he asked, when he heard the vicious hammer of the enemy’s Maxim.  “Yes,” somebody gloomily answered, “it always goes on like that, till at length we pretend to like it, and that we should feel dull if it were silent.”

Although the soldiers in Mafeking were disposed to grumble at the small part they seemed to be playing in the great tussle in which England was engaged, the authorities were satisfied that for so small a town to have kept occupied during the first critical month of the war 10,000—­and at later stages never less than 2,000—­Boers, was in itself no small achievement.  We women always had lots to do.  When the hospital work was slack there were many Union Jacks to be made—­a most intricate and tiresome occupation—­and these were distributed among the various forts.  We even had a competition in trimming hats, and a prize was given to the best specimen as selected by a competent committee.  In the evenings we never failed to receive the Mafeking evening paper, and were able to puzzle our heads over its excellent acrostics, besides frequently indulging in a pleasant game of cards.