better than I could.  Besides, if they captured him, the worst he would get would be a cut across the neck with a sjambok for acting as hunting-guide to a detested Rooitbaaitje; whilst as for me, they would in all probability discredit my tale concerning the hunting trip, and give me a free, but rapid, pass to that land which we all hope to see eventually, but none of us are anxious to start for; because a correspondent has no right to carry a rifle during war time, a thing I never do unless I am out hunting.  I gave my tired horse a spell, whilst I searched the veldt with my glasses, then slipping through a gully I made my way out on to the veldt, got in touch with a donga that ran the way I wanted to travel, got into its bed, gave my horse a drink, and rode on until dark; then I made my way into camp, and religiously held my peace concerning the doings of that day, because I did not want the life chaffed out of me.  A few days later I happened to call at the Colonial camp, and was asked to dine by one of the officers.

“Like venison?” he asked cheerily.

“Yes, when it comes my way,” I replied.

“Got some to-day,” he said.  “It’s nicely hung, too; not fresh from the gun.”

“Shoot it yourself, eh?”

“Well, no, not exactly; was out on patrol on Monday, and saw a couple of lousy Dutchmen.  They didn’t think we were round, so were enjoying themselves shooting buck.  We nearly got one of ’em with a long shot.”

“Didn’t they show fight?” I asked innocently.

“Fight?” he said, with scorn unutterable in his accent.  “Not a bit of it.  They dropped their game, and cleared as if a thousand devils were after them.  I never saw men ride so fast.”

“Positive they were Dutchmen?” I ventured.

“Yes,” he laughed; “why, I’d know one of those ugly devils five miles off.”

That settled me, and I said no more.

WITH THE BASUTOS.

When the Eighth Division was skirting the borders of Basutoland I thought it would not be a waste of time to cross the border, and if possible interview one of the chiefs.  My opportunity came at last.  Our general decided to give his weary men a few days’ rest, so getting into the saddle at Willow Grange I rode to Ficksburg, and there crossed the River Caledon, whose yellow waters, like an orange ribbon, divide Basutoland from the Free State.  At this point the river runs between steep banks, and when I crossed it was about deep enough to kiss my horse’s girths, though I could well believe that in the flood season it becomes a most formidable torrent.  An artificial cutting has been made on both sides to facilitate the passage of traders, black and white, but even there the ford is so constituted that the Boers on the one side and the blacks on the other could successfully dispute the passage of an invading army with a mere handful of men.