One of the sayings of Baden-Powell which I most like is that which most reveals this side of his character.  “A smile and a stick,” says he, “will carry you through any difficulty in the world.”  And he lives in accordance with this principle; and it is typical of the man.  Over the world he goes on his solitary expeditions, hunting animals, hunting men, making notes of what foreign armies are doing, what are the chief thoughts occupying the minds of distant and dangerous tribesmen, and he never goes about it blusteringly or with the Byronic mystery of the stage detective.  He trusts to his sense of humour—­to his smile—­first; after that, and only when there is no hope for it, do those hard jaws of his lock with a snap, the eyes light up with resistless determination, and whir-r-r goes the stick, and—­well, it requires a tough head to bear what follows.

[Illustration:  The Family on Board the Pearl]

Baden-Powell’s friends were amused during the early days of the siege of Mafeking by the complaint of some fellow in the town who had incurred the Colonel’s wrath.  I forget the exact words of the silly creature’s complaint, as, indeed, I forget his offence, but it was something after this fashion:  “The Colonel called me before him and, in a dictatorial manner, told me that if I did it again he would have me shot.  He then most insolently whistled a tune.”  The last words I believe to be quite correctly quoted:  “He then most insolently whistled a tune.”  How they suggest laughter!  One of Baden-Powell’s choicest epigrams refers expressly to this very trick of whistling:  “There is nothing like whistling an air when you feel exasperated beyond reclaim.”  Uncle Toby whistling “Lillabullero” when muddled by his scarps and counter-scarps, and Baden-Powell whistling a scrap from Patience to prevent himself from kicking a dangerous idiot out of his presence!  “He then most insolently whistled a tune.”  I recall those words sometimes when I am dropping off to sleep, and they wake me up to laugh.  I tell this story not only for its own dear sake, but because it is necessary to remember, when considering Baden-Powell’s character, that though he meets you with a smile on his face he carries a stick in his hand to prevent you from taking liberties with his good nature.  The best-tempered fellow in the world, and blessed with the keenest sense of humour, he can be as uncompromising a martinet as the sternest fire-eater of old days—­when there is real necessity for it.

In this flannel-shirt life of his, Baden-Powell has had many adventures, but few, I think, are more interesting in a subdued way than one he records in his diary of the Matabele campaign.  I give it in his own words:  “To-day, when out scouting by myself, being at some distance from my boy and the horses, I lay for a short rest and a quiet look-out among some rocks and grass overlooking a little stream, and I saw a charming picture.  Presently there