On us they wasted all their lead,
      On us who stood at bay,
    And with our guns (forgive it, Stead!)
      Popped quietly away.

    They could not make the city burn,
      However hard they tried. 
    Not one of us is dead, but learn
      A dog it was that died.

The reaction was extraordinary.  The almost unknown Colonel Baden-Powell instantly became “B.-P.” to the general public, and in the twinkling of an eye his photograph appeared in the shop-windows beside those of Sir Redvers Buller, Sir George White, and Lord Methuen.  Everybody was cracking jokes about the war, and the Boers seemed to be already under the heel of the conqueror.  When men opened their newspapers in the railway carriage it was with the remark, “How’s old B.-P. getting along?” The doings of other soldiers in more important positions lost much of their interest, and the public mind became riveted on Mafeking.  Here was a light-hearted cavalry-officer locked up in a little frontier town with seven hundred Irregular cavalry, a few score volunteers, six machine-guns and two 7-pounders; against whom was pitted the redoubtable Cronje with one 10-pounder, five 7-pounders, two Krupp 12-pounders, and one Krupp 94-pounder, and probably an army of something like 6000 wily Boers.  And yet the Goal-Keeper, 870 miles from English Cape Town and only 150 miles from Boer Pretoria, was as light-hearted and optimistic as a general leading an overwhelming army against a baffled and disorganised foe.  Englishmen were quick to recognise the virtue of the man who solemnly sent the death of a dog to be recorded in the archives of the War Office; quick to appreciate the peril of his position; and I do not think I am screwing my string too tight when I say that the safety of Baden-Powell from that moment became a personal matter to thousands of Englishmen all the world over.  Miss Baden-Powell at this time was travelling in Scotland, and at some out-of-the-way station she and her boxes detrained.  The station-master passing along the platform noticed the name of Baden-Powell on the trunks, and instantly rushed towards her, with beaming face and extended hand,—­“Gie me the honour, ma’am,” he cried, “o’ shakin’ your hand.”  And from this time gifts and letters poured in ceaselessly upon Mrs. Baden-Powell in London, letters from all classes of the nation, costly gifts, humble gifts—­all testifying to the giver’s love and admiration of her gallant son in Mafeking.  One of these presents took the form of a large portrait of B.-P. worked in coloured silks, another a little modest book-marker.  And in the streets gutter-merchants were doing a roaring trade in brooches and badges with B.-P.’s face smiling on the enamel as contentedly as if immortalised on a La Creevy miniature.  Finally, to complete this apotheosis, Madame Tussaud announced on flaming placards that Baden-Powell had been added to the number of her Immortals.