two hundred days.  And during these long, long days men have been in the trenches night and day, children crying to their mothers to be taken away from the pitiless rain of Boer bullets and the terrifying scream of Boer shells; day by day fever has crept in to lessen the number of brave men whose faith in the Old Carthusian never once wavered, and to rob poor mothers of their little ones.  And with all these distressing experiences to wear him down and sicken his heart, our hero found himself further hampered by treachery in his own camp.

Treachery it was that frustrated Baden-Powell’s great effort to break the cordon pressing so relentlessly upon little Mafeking, and by that means open up communication with those marching to his relief.  The battle of Game Tree fort, as it is called, is one of those events which thrill the heart with pride, and then at the conclusion bring tears into the eyes with the reflection that so much skill in the planning, so much valour in the execution, should be defeated by base treachery.

Baden-Powell’s plans for the taking of this fort were perfectly understood by his officers.  The little force entrusted with the work of carrying Game Tree moved out of the town in the dusk of early morning, and in a few minutes the roar of artillery announced the beginning of a desperate fight.  The scream of the engine of the armoured train told the men at the guns to cease firing, meaning that Captain Vernon was ready to rush the position with the bayonet.  The scene that followed was magnificent.  Waving their hats and cheering like schoolboys after a football match, our men started to run through the scrub towards the silent fort.  And then as they went, a pitiless fire suddenly poured in upon them, a hail of bullets tore up the ground at their feet, swept down their gallant ranks, like grass before the scythe, and the men realised amid that enclosing and remorseless fire that treachery had forewarned the Boers, that Game Tree was impregnable.  But did they waver or turn back?  Not them.  They were many yards from the fort, and their orders were to storm it.  On they rushed, the officers well in front, waving their swords in the air and shouting cheerfully to their men to follow.  Three officers, Vernon, Sandford, and Paton, seem to have made a race of it.  Through that terrible zone of fire these young Englishmen rushed forward with all the zeal of men striving to be first to touch the tape.  Captain Vernon fell ten yards from the thundering fort, and Sandford and Paton were left to fight out that splendid race alone.  With a shout from his parched lips, Paton leaped upon the redoubt, caught with his strong hand the corner of a sandbag, jerked it out of position, thrust his revolver through the loophole, and, panting like a man spent, fired into the enemy’s midst till he fell, shot through his gallant heart.  Sandford, too, had run a great race, and had almost tied with Paton on the post.  He flung himself upon the piled wall that could only