that morning in syrup, and classified therefore as preserves, went freely for seven and sixpence a bottle, and condensed milk at five shillings a tin.  But these prices were low compared with the five shillings given for three tiny cucumbers no longer than one’s hand.  The crowning bid of all, however, was thirty shillings for twenty-eight new potatoes, that weighed probably three or four pounds.  The buyers were mostly mess-presidents of regiments, whose officers began to crave for some change from the daily rations of tough commissariat beef and compressed vegetables; or troopers of the Imperial Light Horse, who will rough it with the best when necessity compels, but not so long as there are simple luxuries to be had for the money that is plentiful among them.

Cynics dining sumptuously in their clubs may jeer at the idea of campaigners attaching so much importance to creature comforts.  Let them try a course of army rations for two months, and then say what price they would set against a fresh egg or a new potato.  Two privates of the Gordon Highlanders stopped beside the auctioneer’s stall as if meditating a bid for some fruit.  They listened in wonderment as the prices went up by leaps and bounds.  Then said one to the other, “Come awa, mon!  We dinna want nae sour grapes.”  For them, however, and for others whose means did not run to Christmas market prices, there was consolation in store.  Colonel Ward had taken care that there should be a reserve of raisins and other things necessary for the compounding of plum-puddings; and officers of the Army Service Corps were able to report for Sir George White’s satisfaction that sufficient could be issued for every soldier in this force to have a full ration.  The only thing wanting was suet, which trek oxen do not yield in abundance after eking out a precarious existence on the shortest of short commons; and half-fed commissariat sheep have not much superfluous fat about them.  What substitutes were found it boots not to inquire too curiously, seeing that Tommy did not trouble to ask so long as he got his Christmas pudding in some form.  There was no rum for flavouring, as all liquors have to be carefully hoarded for possible emergencies.  So for once the British soldier had to celebrate Christmas according to the rules of strict temperance.  Yet he managed to have a fairly festive time for all that.

Boer guns sent us greeting in the shape of shells that did not explode.  When dug up they were found to contain rough imitations of plum-pudding that had been partly cooked by the heat of explosion in gun barrels.  On the case of each shell was engraved in bold capitals, “With the Compliments of the Season.”  This was the Boer gunner’s idea of subtle irony, he being under the impression that everybody in Ladysmith must be then at starvation point.  In all probability it did not occur to him that he was throwing into the town a number of curious trophies which collectors were eager to buy