f being somewhere else. Would any one
kindly tell him why the Guards were not somewhere else? And Churchill
(he has a face like a good-natured child, and looks about fourteen) eyes
the old colonels, who fidget nervously round the fire like disturbed
hens. He talks and argues incessantly, but very cleverly. Before he goes
he dashes off a sketch of South Africa's future with a few words about
farming and gold-mining. He gives us a cup of hot cocoa all round, which
he produces from nowhere, like a conjuring trick, re-arranges our fire,
tells us when the war will be over, and strolls off (daring the old
colonels with his eye to so much as look at him) to the farm to give the
General his final instructions about to-morrow's action.

Next day our infantry established itself on the lower step of the Boer
position, but the final ridge still remained in their hands. It was a
ding-dong fight between the two, for the positions were within
half-rifle shot of each other. However, we could not turn them out,
though we got a field-battery right up in the firing line, which cracked
shrapnel over them as hard as ever it could load and fire. They had
determined to hold that ridge till night gave them the opportunity of
moving off their waggons and guns safely; and hold it they did. No doubt
we could have carried it by storm, but crossing that thousand yards of
open ground would have meant a terrible loss, and the General did not
attempt it. As it was, there was a great deal of banging and blazing,
almost like the old Modder days, for a time; guns hard at it, and
Mausers and Lee-Metfords jabbering away at a great rate, though, as both
sides were under cover, the loss was not heavy. The firing went on till
pitch dark, and we camped close under the ridge we had won. Next morning
we found the ridge vacant, with only heaps of empty cartridge cans and
an occasional blood-stain on the rocks to show where our enemy had lain.

A little way out from Pretoria there are some very smart-looking new
houses, what they call "villa residences" in England, built in the
style, a sort of mild and tepid Gothic (what I call grocer's Gothic, for
it always reminds me of brown sugar and arrowroot), common around
watering-places; small gables sticking out everywhere, till it looks
like a cluster of dog-kennels; walls faced with ornamental tiles and
lath and plaster; small shrubberies round, and a name on the gate. There
were two especially beautiful ones. The Gen