on making his men practical soldiers, B.-P. was settling down to what
is called the dull part of soldiering when the gods, in the shape of
the heads of the War Office, again interfered with the even tenor of
his way. A telegram from Sir Frederick Carrington arrived at Belfast
towards the end of April telling our hero that there was to be
fighting in Matabeleland, and that there would be room for him on the
staff. B.-P. was attending that day the funeral of a man in his
squadron who had been killed by a fall from his horse, and after the
service he rushed back to barracks, changed his kit, arranged about
selling his horses, dogs, and furniture, and just when the English
world sits down to its most excellent meal of the day, that oasis of
the afternoon desert, he was in a train rushing as fast as an Irish
train can rush towards the steamer that sailed for England.

At twelve o'clock next day B.-P. was saying good-bye to Sir Frederick
Carrington, who sailed before him, and that done he spent a few
miserable days in constant dread that he would be bowled over by a
hansom, or catch scarlet fever, and thus be prevented from sharing in
the hardships and glory of a campaign. But nothing contrary happened
to him, and after affectionate farewells to his family he embarked for
Cape Town on board the _Tantallon Castle_ on 2nd May. One of his first
labours was to begin an illustrated diary for his mother's
delectation, a diary that was afterwards published by Messrs. Methuen
in book form under the title of "The Matabele Campaign--1896." The
keeping of this diary had its good uses for B.-P.; in what manner he
explains in the preface, addressed to his mother,--"Firstly, because
the pleasures of new impressions are doubled if they are shared with
some appreciative friend (and you are always more than appreciative).
Secondly, because it has served as a kind of short talk with you every
day." That is the way in which British soldiers go forth to war.

The voyage was uneventful. Drill in pyjamas every morning prevented
B.-P. from putting on flesh, and that drill, especially "Knees Up!"
seems to have been of a pretty severe kind, for it draws from
Baden-Powell the exclamation, "I'd like to kill him who invented
it--but it does us all a power of good." That is the saying of the old
soldier. In the barrack-room it is considered the right thing to
grumble, or "grouse" as it is called, while one is working hardest.
Thus the man with a jack-b