ient to the British Government to be able
to make one or two examples.' He was a great gross man, and his colour
came and went on a large over-fed face; so that his uneasiness was
obvious. He never came near me again, but some days later the news of a
Boer success arrived, and on the strength of this he came to the prison
and abused a subaltern in the Dublin Fusiliers, telling him that he was
no gentleman, and other things which it is not right to say to a
prisoner. The subaltern happens to be exceedingly handy with his fists,
so that after the war is over Mr. Malan is going to get his head punched
quite independently of the general settlement.

Although, as I have frequently stated, there were no legitimate grounds
of complaint against the treatment of British regular officers while
prisoners of war, the days I passed at Pretoria were the most monotonous
and among the most miserable of my life. Early in the sultry mornings,
for the heat at this season of the year was great, the soldier
servants--prisoners like ourselves--would bring us a cup of coffee, and
sitting up in bed we began to smoke the cigarettes and cigars of another
idle, aimless day. Breakfast was at nine: a nasty uncomfortable meal.
The room was stuffy, and there are more enlivening spectacles than
seventy British officers caught by Dutch farmers and penned together in
confinement. Then came the long morning, to be killed somehow by
reading, chess, or cards--and perpetual cigarettes. Luncheon at one: the
same as breakfast, only more so; and then a longer afternoon to follow a
long morning. Often some of the officers used to play rounders in the
small yard which we had for exercise. But the rest walked moodily up and
down, or lounged over the railings and returned the stares of the
occasional passers-by. Later would come the 'Volksstem'--permitted by
special indulgence--with its budget of lies.

Sometimes we get a little fillip of excitement. One evening, as I was
leaning over the railings, more than forty yards from the nearest
sentry, a short man with a red moustache walked quickly down the street,
followed by two colley dogs. As he passed, but without altering his pace
in the slightest, or even looking towards me, he said quite distinctly
'Methuen beat the Boers to hell at Belmont.' That night the air seemed
cooler and the courtyard larger. Already we imagined the Republics
collapsing and the bayonets of the Queen's Guards in the streets of
Pretoria. N