kept busy picking pockets, examining bills,
perusing love-letters, written in all sorts of prose, and in verse which
was homely, if not exactly Homeric.

As already pointed out, the day was fine, and the Boers were silent; so
that, recent disappointments notwithstanding, there was little credit in
being jolly on such a Sunday. The Tapleys of the city had accordingly no
great trouble in inducing us to amuse ourselves. The united bands of the
Kimberley and Lancashire Regiments were to give a concert in the Public
Gardens; and at four o'clock some thousands of people, arrayed in their
best, had gathered there. The Gardens were crowded; cares were
forgotten; the Boers were chaffed; while the strains of the melodists
were awaited with pleasurable anticipation. At the psychological moment
the music began. The tune was not unfamiliar; we had heard it
before--and prayed that we might not hear it again! It was not from the
bandstand the discord was wafted; when I say, in a word, it was the hoot
of the hooters, sounding the alarm, it will be understood how far from
soothing was its spell. The exodus from the grounds was a treat to
watch; the ladies in their finery made a dash for home, while the
gentlemen rushed for their rifles with equal despatch. The bandsmen laid
aside their lutes for more deadly instruments, and prepared themselves
to give the Boer as much music as he cared to face. It was altogether a
magnificent dissolution, rapidly accomplished. And, of course, it was as
usual, all for nothing. Wessels was a wag.

Monday morning revealed the Boer clans foregathering in force on the
south side of the city. The citizen soldiers were quietly directed to
get behind their sandbags, while a mounted body was ordered out to
anticipate events, and, if practicable, to knock over a few of the
clansmen. But it was only bluff again. Our women folk, although they
dreaded a _fracas_, were particularly impatient of this time-honoured
game. During the day, a good many shells were expended on the Premier
Mine. The mines, it may be said, were the objectives of special
bombardments until the end; but, so far, we were not inclined to think
highly of the enemy's marksmanship. The shells fell a long way short,
albeit not so short as at first; the aim was improving. Given time, the
Boer would yet hit his target; but of course he would not get time.

Practice was resumed next morning at an hour sufficiently preternatural
to deprive us of a por