press-censor. "That press-censor," gasped Hartland, "never--is--where
he--ought to be." The words were bumped out of him as he was shot up and
down in the saddle. That was it. It was the press-censor's fault. Our
consciences were clear now. If our papers worried themselves or us
because they did not receive the great news until every one else knew of
it, it was all because of that press-censor. We smiled again and spurred
the horses forward. We abused the press-censor roundly--we were
extremely indignant with him. It was so like him to lose himself the day
Ladysmith was relieved. "Confound him," we muttered, and grinned
guiltily. We felt as we used to feel when we were playing truant from
school.

We were nearing Pieter's Station now, and were half-way to Ladysmith.
But the van of the army was still about us. Was it possible that it
stretched already into the beleaguered city? Were we, after all, to be
cheated of the first and freshest impressions? The tall lancers turned
at the sound of the horses' hoofs and stared, infantry officers on foot
smiled up at us sadly, they were dirty and dusty and sweating, they
carried rifles and cross belts like the Tommies; and they knew that we
outsiders who were not under orders would see the chosen city before
them. Some of them shouted to us, but we only nodded and galloped on.
We wanted to get rid of them all, but they were interminable. When we
thought we had shaken them off, and that we were at last in advance, we
would come upon a group of them resting on the same ground their shells
had torn up during the battle the day before.

We passed Boer laagers marked by empty cans and broken saddles and black,
cold camp-fires. At Pieter's Station the blood was still fresh on the
grass where two hours before some of the South African Light Horse had
been wounded.

The Boers were still on Bulwana then? Perhaps, after all, we had better
turn back and try to find that press-censor. But we rode on and saw
Pieter's Station, as we passed it, as an absurd relic of by-gone days
when bridges were intact and trains ran on schedule time. One door seen
over the shoulder as we galloped past read, "Station Master's
Office--Private," and in contempt of that stern injunction, which would
make even the first-class passenger hesitate, one of our shells had
knocked away the half of the door and made its privacy a mockery. We had
only to follow the track now and we would arrive in ti