e back to camp in a hurry and in rather bad temper, for it
was mail day, and time was precious. But the little disaster proved to
be a cheap enough lesson to the Yeomanry, and also to be the herald of
operations far more important.

This happened on Thursday, April 19th. On Friday morning I was out at
the same place at half-past six, because a staff officer had told me the
night before that there was "a show on," and a "show" may mean anything
from a patrol to a reconnaissance in force. Lord Chesham, who was in
command, was sitting on the kopje with his staff, and I climbed up and
joined them, the cavalry remaining as before underneath the hill while
the scouts went out. We sat for an hour, comparing each other's glasses,
until the stones became hotter and hotter and the sky line began to wave
in the heat. At last I rode out to where there was an advanced picket,
and sat searching the horizon with glasses. We were in a little grove of
mimosa, and the doves were busy above our heads. After waiting for
another hour we saw some Boers to the north, and presently the right
flank scouts came in to report that there were about forty Boers working
northwards on our flank.

That was quite enough. Everyone was back at the kopje in no time, and
Lord Chesham sent out Lord Scarborough with one squadron, and Colonel
Mahon with another.

I went with Lord Scarborough's. We rode out to the point at which the
picket had been cut off, and saw more and more Boers coming from the
north--about seventy--but they never got within range, although they
worked closer and closer. Our little body of men was so well protected
by flankers and scouts that, when the Boers at length began to steal
along our flank with the evident intention of sniping us as we returned,
we were able to retire before they came within range, having discovered
the very useful fact that they were becoming more numerous and bolder in
our neighbourhood.

As we passed through the camp we saw waggons and tents being packed.
Advancing at last? Oh, dear, no. Only Lord Kitchener at the other end of
the wire playing with us again. We were to retire on Boshof, but Lord
Methuen decided, instead of going into the town, to encamp at Beck's
Farm about five miles out, where the grazing was better. The lay mind
found it hard to understand the purpose of these movements. Lord Methuen
had been humbugged and baffled by Headquarters in what seemed at the
time a most unbusinesslike way. Fir