of kopjes for which he was making, they counted him as theirs.  He only had one chance, to gallop into the donga, jump out of the saddle and fire at them as they closed in on him; and, as they rode far apart, it was a million to one on missing in his hurry in the fading light.  But the gods had decided otherwise, for the whiplike crack of rifles suddenly cut the air, and the bullets fell so thick around the pursuers that the three men could almost breathe lead.  Half a mile away, on the far side of the donga, appeared a squad of Yeomanry, blazing away like veritable seraphs at Brabant and his men, whilst they let the flying Boer go free.  Brabant whipped out his handkerchief, and waved it frantically; but the lead only whistled the faster, and he had only one chance for his life, and that was to wheel and ride at full speed for the nearest cover, where he and his men hid until the Yeomen rode up.  Then Brabant hailed them, and asked them what the devil they meant by trying to blow him and his men out of the saddle.

There was a pause in the ranks of the Yeomen, then a voice lisped through the gathering gloom, “Are you fellahs British?”

“Yes, d—­n you; did you think we were springbok?”

“No, by Jove, but we thought you were beastly Booahs.  Awfully sorry if we’ve caused you any inconvenience.  What were you chasing the other fellah foah, eh?”

“Oh!” howled the disgusted backwoodsman with a snort of wrath, “we only wanted to know if he’d cut his eye tooth yet.”

“Bah Jove,” quoth the Yeoman, “you fellahs are awfully sporting, don’t yer know.”

“Yes,” snarled the angry South African, “and the next time you Johnnies mistake me for a Booah and plug at me, I’ll just take cover and send you back a bit of lead to teach you to look before you tighten your finger on a trigger.”

Talking of the Yeomen brings back a good yarn that is going round the camps at their expense.  They are notorious for two things—­their pluck and their awful bad bushcraft.  They would ride up to the mouth of a foeman’s guns coolly and gamely enough, but they can’t find their way home on the veldt after dark to save their souls, and so fall into Boer traps with a regularity that is becoming monotonous.  Recently a British officer who had business in a Boer laager asked a commander why they set the Yeomen free when they made them prisoners.  “Oh!” quoth the Boer, with a merry twinkle in his eye, “those poor Yeomen of yours, we can always capture them when we want them.”  This is not a good story to tell if you want an encore, if you happen to be sitting round a Yeoman table or camp fire.