all I can say is that the Geneva Conference ought to interdict it.  The effects of the explosion of a lyddite shell are as follows:—­Any one within 50 yards is obliterated, blown clean away.  From 50 to 100 yards they are killed by the force of the concussion of the air.  From 100 to 150 yards they are killed by the fumes or poisonous gases which the shell ex-hales.  From 150 to 200 they are not killed, but knocked senseless, and their skin is turned to a brilliant green colour.  From 200 to 250 they are so dazed and stupefied as to be incapable of action, and, generally speaking, after that any one in the district or neighbourhood of the shock is “never the same man again.”  This is no mere rumour, for I have it direct from the naval gunners themselves.

This morning, well before light, we took out our gentleman, dragged by an immense string of oxen, to introduce him to his future victims and whet his appetite by a taste.  The Boer position lies some six miles to the north of the river.  The most conspicuous feature of it is a hill projecting towards us like a ship’s ram and dipping sharply to the plain.  Magersfontein, they call it.  The railway going north leaves it to the right, but other hills and kopjes carry on the position westward across the railway, barring an advance.  It is evident that we shall have to take the place in front, as we are not strong enough nor mobile enough to go round.

We have a few reinforcements, notably the Highland Brigade, also the 12th Lancers under Airlie, and some Horse Artillery pop-guns.

There is a good deal of bush on the plain, especially to the right of the steep hill, where it is quite thick.  During the last week we have been poking about in this a good deal, approaching the hill now on this side, now on that, under cover of the scrub, examining and searching, but with very little result.  They keep themselves well hidden.  The hills look untenanted except that now and then we have seen parties of Boers wending their way in between the kopjes and driving in herds of cattle.

In the thick bush on the eastern plain, as we lay one morning at daybreak, we could hear the shouts of men and catch glimpses of them here and there riding about and urging their cattle on.  Some passed not far from where we lay crouched (we had left our ponies on the outskirts of the bush).  It seemed funny to watch them riding to and fro, unconscious of our presence and calling to each other.  It reminded me of some boy’s game of hide-and-seek or Tom Tiddler’s ground.  We have had two or three casualties, and lost two prisoners, and we have bagged several of them.  The army is resting.

Well, this morning, as I was saying, we take our Long Tom (Joey, as he is now called, out of compliment to Chamberlain) out for a shot.  Here is a note about it:—­

“4.30 A.M.—­Our little groups of horse, in threes and fours, are clustered behind bushes.  There is a whispered consultation round our large gun and his nose slowly rises.  The jerk of the lanyard is followed by a frightful explosion and then comes the soaring noise of the flying shell and the red spark and column of dust on the kopje.  The range has been well judged, for the first shot falls with beautiful accuracy just on the hill where they are supposed to be.