and threatened with dire vengeance. Our cook was equal to the occasion.
He dragged K---- back and apologised to the aggrieved colonists,
explaining--by a pious fraud--that he was K----'s father and so
responsible for bringing him out that evening. Our gleemen now stepped
into the breach with "Ye Banks and Braes," and we left the station amid
cheers.

Another of my friends under the excitement of song and mirth frequently
clutched my arm and pointed to imaginary batches of Dutchmen standing
suspiciously near the line and presumably intent on wrecking the train.
These were usually prickly-pear bushes. When we approached Modder River
he exclaimed that we were now within range of the Boer guns, and
accordingly pulled up the windows as a sort of protection against shells
and bullets.

As we steamed into Modder River station the 4.7 gun called "Joe
Chamberlain" loosed off a Lyddite shell at the Magersfontein trenches.
Some desultory shelling continued on both sides at 7,000 yards, chiefly
in the early morning and evening--a kind of "good day" and "good night"
exchanged between "Joe Chamberlain" and "Long Tom,". During our stay on
this occasion some excellent practice was made on both sides. On the
26th a shell from our gun struck a Boer water-cask and smashed it to
bits; next day a Boer shell fell plump into a party of Lancers and
killed four horses. On another occasion more than fifty shells--so I
heard--fell round the 4.7 gun, and although the gunners were compelled
to seek cover the gun was absolutely uninjured.

Apart from this interchange of artillery fire the camp was undisturbed.
The trenches were of course manned day and night, but spare time was
filled up to some extent by various games. Goal posts were visible here
and there, and Lord Methuen had offered a challenge cup for "soccer"
football, the ties of which were being keenly contested.

We took on board a fresh load of sick and wounded men--chiefly the
former--bound for Wynberg hospital. Just before we left I walked a
hundred yards from the line and saw the graves of Colonel Downman,
Lieutenant Campbell, Lieutenant Fox, and a Swede called, I think, Olaf
Nilsen. The graves were marked by simple wooden crosses: those who were
enemies in life lay side by side in the gentle keeping of Death, the
Healer of Strife, for so the Greeks of old time loved to call him.

Soon after leaving the Modder the sky grew black with clouds, the birds
hid themselves from view and