nto
folds of the hills, a couple of tubby old black-powdered howitzers, and
they let fly three rounds which should have been very effective. But the
black powder gave away their position in a moment, and from every
side--Pepworth's, Lombard's Nek, Bulwan--came spouting inquirers to see
who made that noise. The Lord Mayor's show was a fool to that display of
infernal fireworks. The pompon added his bark, but he has never yet
bitten anybody: him the Devons despise, and have christened with a
coarse name. They weathered the storm without a man touched.

Not a point had the Boers gained. And then came twelve o'clock, and, if
the Boers had fixed the date of the 9th of November, so had we. We had
it in mind whose birthday it was. A trumpet-major went forth, and
presently, golden-tongued, rang out, "God bless the Prince of Wales."
The general up at Cove Redoubt led the cheers. The sailors' champagne,
like their shells, is being saved for Christmas, but there was no stint
of it to drink the Prince's health withal. And then the Royal
salute--bang on bang on bang--twenty-one shotted guns, as quick as the
quickfirer can fire, plump into the enemy.

That finished it. What with the guns and the cheering, each Boer
commando must have thought the next was pounded to mincemeat. The
rifle-fire dropped.

The devil had driven home all his tin-tacks, and for the rest of the day
we had calm.

XIII.

A DIARY OF DULNESS.

THE MYTHOPOEIC FACULTY--A MISERABLE DAY--THE VOICE OF THE
POMPOM--LEARNING THE BOER GAME--THE END OF FIDDLING JIMMY--MELINITE
AT CLOSE QUARTERS--A LAKE OF MUD.

_Nov. 11._--Ugh! What a day! Dull, cold, dank, and misty--the spit of an
11th of November at home. Not even a shell from Long Tom to liven it.
The High Street looks doubly dead; only a sodden orderly plashes up its
spreading emptiness on a sodden horse. The roads are like rice-pudding
already, and the paths like treacle. Ugh! Outside the hotel drip the
usual loafers with the usual fables. Yesterday, I hear, the Leicesters
enticed the enemy to parade across their front at 410 yards; each man
emptied his magazine, and the smarter got in a round or two of
independent firing besides. Then they went out and counted the
corpses--230. It is certainly true: the narrator had it from a man who
was drinking a whisky, while a private of the regiment, who was not
there himself, but had it from a friend, told the barman.

The Helpmakaar road is as