On the other hand, the advance is of course the most exciting.  You make a dash for a kopje, probably uncertain if it is held or not.  The clucking of the old Mausers at long range warns you that it is, and a few bullets kick the dust up.  The squadron swing to the right to flank the kopje, and the fire gets hotter and the whistle of bullets sharper and closer.  Suddenly the welcome report of a gun, followed by a second one, sounds behind you, and next instant the rush of the quick-coming shells is heard overhead.  Then the squadron goes headlong for the kopje.  The ponies tear along, mad with excitement, their hoofs thundering on the hard ground.  The men grip their loaded carbines with their right hands; not one that won’t be first if he can.  There go the shells!  There is a little shout of approval; one bursts right among the rocks on the top of the kopje in a puff of white smoke; the other half-way down, raising a great cloud of dust.  The Mauser fire ceases as if by magic, and the next instant the racing squadron has reached the rise.  Down jump the riders and clamber up over the stones.  Yonder the enemy go, bundling along a rough track not 500 yards away, half seen through whirling dust.  The men fling themselves down, some tearing a handful of cartridges from their bandoliers to have handy, and settle their carbines on the rocks.  Crack! goes the first shot, and at the sound, as at a signal, the covey of fleeing Boers shakes out and scatters over the veldt.  The fire quickens rapidly as the carbines come into action.  Every Boer as he rides off, you can see through the glasses, is pursued and attended by little dust tufts that tell where the bullets strike.  Surely they can’t be going to get off scot-free.  “Take your time, men; now do take your time,” insists our captain.  “A thousand yards, and aim well ahead!” And now at last it is seen with glee that something is the matter with the man on the white horse.  Horse is it, or man?  Both apparently.  The man seems to be lying on his horse’s neck, and the horse has lapsed into a walk.  Instantly two of his comrades have turned to him.  One begins thrashing the horse with his rifle into a canter.  The other seems to be holding the rider in the saddle.  Every carbine is on to them.  Another Boer jumps off and lies down, and the report of his rifle reaches us at the same instant that a bullet whistles overhead.  No one attends to him.  Every man is blazing away at the little slow moving group of three, a good mark even at this distance.  But it is not to be; though the dust spots are all round them, hit them we can’t; and at last as they move away in the distance, the last reluctant shot is fired, and we give it up.  On this particular occasion we capture one of the Boers a little further on hidden in a farm garden, his horse having been shot, though we did not notice it.  This accounts for two anyway, which is about what we expect, and we proceed good-naturedly to help the farm people out with some of their furniture before burning the house down.