as if they were worth their weight in gold—­as indeed they nearly were.  Ever and anon the bearer of a bird would be saluted by a passer-by who would desire to know its price.  On hearing it he would enjoy a good laugh, or relieve his feelings with a good oath in deprecation of avarice so naked.  Another would pause and say nothing, but with a baleful gleam in his eye would set himself to measure the proportions—­not of the chicken, but of him who carried it, while he mentally calculated his chances of success in a tussle, and shaped in his mind a desperate resolve to enjoy one good meal and then die, or perish, anyhow, in the attempt.  All the provision shops were still open, but there was nothing for sale in half them.  Tinned meats had given out; this was considered the last straw, even by the fastidiously clean, and the toxicologist who liked his salmon fresh.  Five, ten, twenty shillings, any sum would be given for a tin of anything, and such bribes (despite Martial Law) were frequently placed in the hollow of a merchant’s hand, the while he was beseeched in a whisper to slip a friend a can of something carnal.  But the grocer was adamant every time; he could not do it; and a display of principle is easy when it springs as much from necessity as from good emotions.  The Military Authorities had been commandeering goods of all sorts—­“bully beef” among the rest—­and storing them away in the catacombs of Kimberley.  Now, the public were anxious to know the meaning of the corner in “bully beef”; but nobody could explain it.  A vast quantity of cigarettes had been commandeered, too; but nobody could explain that either.  Most of the “paper,” it may be said, was not smoked; it was handed back to the tobacconists when the siege was raised, and possibly some canned things were surrendered as well.  The hospital was certainly pretty full; care was taken that the invalids were not neglected, and many things were being preserved for their exclusive use.  This was only as it should be.  But “bully beef” was not reckoned just the ideal food for invalids; and wicked people accordingly found solace in suggesting that the military looked suspiciously well-fed.  It got abroad, too, that there were tons of provisions (consigned to Mafeking) lying at the railway station, and the populace wanted to know why they were not commandeered, and sold at a profit that would go far towards covering the then estimated cost of the war.  The possibility of forwarding them to their destination was out of the question; how were they to be sent out of Kimberley?  Or how into Mafeking?  The military had the power to let us eat these things, but they would not exercise it.  They preferred to allow the butter—­think of it!—­to melt and ooze through the chinks of the boxes; the cheese—­great gorgonzola!—­to wax almost too high; and the potatoes—­O Raleigh!—­to rot ere they decided to annex them.  When these facts were made known the indignation aroused was very general.