Baden-Powell’s work when he arrived was almost entirely confined to the office; and working at a desk from early morning to late at night, with no prospect of an early closing movement, began to tell upon his spirits.  He became convinced that “our force is far too small adequately to cope with so numerous and fairly well-armed an enemy, with well-nigh impregnable strongholds to fall back on....  Our force, bold as it is, is far too small, and yet we cannot increase it by a man, for the simple reason that if we did we could not find the wherewithal to feed it.”  If this sort of thing had gone on much longer B.-P. might have learned to look glum for an entire five minutes; but one night at ten o’clock, when he and Sir Frederick Carrington were putting up the shutters of office, into the town rode Burnham, the famous American scout, with news of a large impi of the enemy about three miles outside Buluwayo.  This necessitated action, and B.-P. was himself again.  With a police-trooper as a guide he rode out to find for himself how matters stood, and, after a hard and refreshing ride, in the early dawn he was able to see the enemy.  There they were on the opposite bank of the Umgusa river, their fires crackling merrily, and they themselves apparently as happy as bean-feasters in Epping Forest.  Not long after he had caught sight of these fires and the Matabele going backwards and forwards from the water, Baden-Powell was at the head of two hundred and fifty men riding towards the Umgusa.  Under the impression, conveyed to them by their sorry old humbug of an oracle, that the waters of the Umgusa would open its jaws and swallow up the wicked white man, the Matebele allowed Baden-Powell to get his force across the stream without firing a shot; but when they found that not only did the waters fail to overwhelm their enemies, but that these same enemies were riding hard towards them, the Matabele took to their heels in order to find cover in some thicker bush.  Then the air began to scream and whistle.  Bullets flew by the ears of the charging English with a phit, phit! and, when they ricocheted off the ground, with a wh-e-e-e-w! Up and down bobbed the black heads in the long rank grass, and bang, bang, bang went the guns.  Some of Baden-Powell’s force wanted to dismount and return the fire, but B.-P., without a sword among his men, sang out, “Make a cavalry fight of it.  Forward!  Gallop!” Then, as the horses raced snorting forward, and the English gave a shout of battle, the Matabele, 1200 against 250, poured an irregular volley into their enemies.  The next minute the horses were in among them, flashing by with the lather on their necks, while their riders’ revolvers barked angrily in every quarter of the field.  The Matabele ran.  As hard as they could lick, they bolted like rabbits to their holes, but faster behind them came the avenging English with the velvet glove flung aside and the iron hand visible to their terror-stricken eyes.  In the general rout, the