On the other side a comical sight met our eyes.  The whole veld was full of scattered Boers retiring in all directions, with a shell bursting in between them every now and then, luckily without any effect.  A few hundred yards away stood the cart of our clergyman, who was frantically trying to unharness his mules and inspan horses in their place.  He was so nervous that his fingers refused to undo the straps, so we dismounted and effected the exchange for him.  As soon as the last strap was buckled he lashed up and drove away, too excited even to say thank you.

We were so accustomed to retreating by this time that it seemed extraordinary to see a man lose his head so easily.  The British shells pursued us till we were out of sight, but the only casualty was when a shell passed so close to Van der Merwe, the mining commissioner of Johannesburg, that the concussion knocked him off his horse.

That evening Jonas came into camp.  Jonas is quite a character in his way.  When the British entered Potchefstroom he, with four followers, took up a position on a kopje about six miles out of town, and a thousand yards from the Johannesburg road.  Whenever a convoy or a body of British came along Jonas and his merry band would open a furious fusillade, causing the unhappy enemy no end of inconvenience.  It is a fact that he carried on this game for months, unhindered.

After his day’s work Jonas would lay aside rifle and bandolier, don his overcoat, and stroll into town to see his family.

He was challenged by a sentry on one occasion, but Jonas reproved him so severely and bluffed him so completely, that the poor fellow broke into an abject apology, whereupon Jonas very condescendingly promised to say no more about the matter.

WE ENTER POTCHEFSTROOM

“On Sunday we shall hold service in Potchefstroom,” announced the commandant.  Ah!  Something definite at last!  The men’s hearts grow light as they polish their rifles, for are not they going to behold their dear ones soon?  No one thinks of doubting the commandant’s word; he is our leader, what he says must be true.  How we shall get in none know, but get in we shall, all are sure of that.  One morning my two comrades are sent to spy the town.  My horse’s unshod hoofs are tender as my lady’s hands; I have searched the plains for a dead horse wearing shoes.  Of all the carcasses I find the hoofs are gone, cut off by sharper comrades.  I must remain behind.  At night the order is given, “March!” Cheerfully the column trots out of camp; we who have no horses follow it with wistful eyes.  There are girls in the town too, ah! such girls!  Complexions a dream of purity, mystic, melting eyes, and hair a silken web to weave sweet fancies through.

At midnight my two friends return.  What, the others gone already?  And you still here!  No, mount, saddle, hurry, sick or well, go we must, and come must you!  And perhaps, after all, if we ride steadily, who knows?  If my horse fails, why, we will loot another on the road.