f our position at a glance. "A
very clear report. Here! you tell the officer commanding the pom-pom
to take his gun up on to that rise. And you" (turning to another of
his staff), "tell Colonel Washington to send a squadron with the
pom-pom! Wait, don't be in a hurry; hear me out, please. Tell him that
the squadron is to extend, take the rise at a gallop--dismount just
before it reaches the top. Now you may go."

Then turning to the chief of the staff, "Have you got a match? Thanks.
Now, tell Freddy[15] to send two of his guns on to that rise south of
the dam. Send a troop with him. I will be here with the rest to await
developments!"

"Order given, sir!" and the Intelligence officer touched his cap.

"Good. Now you go with the pom-pom. I shall be here; let me know
developments. Get along. Don't argue!"

Already the pom-pom is trotting out of the farmhouse enclosure and the
squadron of Dragoons extending on the plain beyond. The faces of the
gunners are as impassive as if they were about to gallop past at a
review. They have been doing this sort of thing for months; it has no
novelty for them. But with the Dragoons it is different. This is their
first engagement; you can see it in the countenances of the men
nearest you. The excitement which whitens men's cheeks and makes every
action angular and awkward.

"Second Squadron 20th Dragoon Guards--Gallop!"

"Pom-pom--Gallop!" comes the echo.

The Boers must be close up, for the advance-guard is falling back.
They are coming back for all they are worth. It will be a race between
us and the enemy for the possession of the ridge; please Providence
that we may be there first, for of a truth he who loses will pay the
stake. The officers realise this, and sitting down to their work they
make the pace. The wild line careering behind them suits itself to
their lead; instinctively in its excitement and inexperience it closes
inwards. Only 200 yards more. The sky-line is clear and defined. No
heads have appeared as yet. One hundred yards! Now we are under the
rise, the horses feel the hill--a few seconds and we shall know who
has won the race. "Steady, men, steady!" Up goes the squadron leader's
arm. "Halt! Dismount!" A chaotic second as the frenzied line reins in.
"'Number Threes.' Where are the 'Number Threes'?"--"Way for the
pom-pom." The straining team crashes through the line. The dismounted
troopers follow their officers up the slope. A moment of suspense--and
a long-d