to be directed to Jones Street, you would be shown the way to the gaol instead.  No explanations would be accepted, no protests heeded, no excuses listened to; no consideration for persons, no bank-balance however huge, would soften the inflexible patrol.  “I did not read the proclamation,” would not do; you must have heard of it.  You might swear you had not, or at the insulting sceptic, but he would neither yield nor apologise.  He was always armed with a rifle, and accompanied by three or four men with ammunition.  It was a common experience with us to wake up during the night and list to the same old hackneyed dialogue.  “Halt!” in a voice of thunder, “who goes there?” “A friend,” would be the invariable response, the tone, pitch, and temper of which would be regulated by the “pass” the friend had or had not in his pocket.  “Advance, friend, and give the countersign,” Excited families would by this time have their heads thrust through the windows to watch the denouement.  Satisfactory explanations would generally follow the final command; but occasionally a babel of recrimination would ensue, and become gradually indistinct as the poor law-breaker was hustled off to prison.

The people, for the most part, sat on their steps, discussing the events of the day, the paucity of news, the doings of the army, the destruction of the Republics and the probability of its easy accomplishment by Christmas (1899).  They would break off now and then with a reference to the activity of the searchlight.  The searchlight was of powerful calibre and shed a brilliant radiance which, revolving, illuminated the surrounding country.  Needless to say, it shone all night; a surprise visit from the Boers was out of the question.  We felt light-hearted on Saturday, and profoundly satisfied, that we were too intrepid for the enemy.  Our patrols kept vainly seeking to provoke a quarrel.  At the camps the “Death of Nelson,” and “comic” melodies not less doleful, were rendered with much feeling.  At the hospital, the wounded were doing well, and one man was quite himself again.  They were extremely well tended, and thanks to public solicitude, were the recipients of countless delicacies, including bottled cheer.

Thus two weeks were over—­well over, it was affirmed.  Alas! we had another sixteen to put behind us; but no; nonsense! what am I saying?  Even the wags, and everyone was inclined to be waggish in the first great fortnight of faith, never put the number higher than eight, lest their jokes should lose point or their wit its subtlety.

CHAPTER III

Week ending 4th November, 1899

The day of opportunity for reflection was with us again, and since so little occasion for action presented itself we talked about war in peace.  The man in the street—­omniscient being!—­discussed it threadbare on the pavement.  A man who knew the Boers was the man in the street.  He knew the British army, too, though; and was sanguine of its ability to go one better—­the shrewdness of which view was loudly applauded.  And he really did much to make morbid people easy, and to lighten the burden of weak minds.  The man in the street was respected.  It was deemed a privilege to chat on the situation with this exalted personage, whom it took a rare and great occasion to make.