over the embers I found a bearded figure, which hoarsely denounced me
for coming to its fire. I explained that it was _our_ fire, but that
he was welcome, and settled down to thaw. It turned out to be a
sergeant of the 38th Battery. I asked something, and he began a long
rambling soliloquy about things in general, in a thick voice, with his
beard almost in the fire, scarcely aware of my presence. I can't
reproduce it faithfully, because of the language, but it dealt with
the war, which he thought would end next February, and the difference
between Boer and British methods, and how our cavalry go along, heels
down, toes in, arms close to side, eyes front, all according to
regulation, keeping distance regardless of ground, while the Boer
cares nothing as long as he gets there and does his work. He finished
with the gloomy prophecy that if we didn't join Clements to-morrow we
should never "get out of this." Not knowing who or where Clements was,
I asked him about the affair of that day, and produced a growling
storm of expletives; then he muttered something about the Victoria
Cross and driving a team out of action, asked the way to his lines, to
which I carefully directed him, and drifted off in the opposite
direction.

By the way, this General Clements seems to be a myth, and the talk now
is of Rundle and Ian Hamilton, who are supposed to be getting round De
Wet from other quarters, while we drive him up this way into their
arms. It is said we are going to Bethlehem. I forgot an important
event of the evening in the arrival of a bag of mails, parcels only,
brought by a convoy from Kroonstadt, which has just come in. To my
delight I got one with a shirt and socks (which I at once put on over
the others), cigarettes (a long exhausted luxury), Liebig, precious
for evening soup, and chocolate, almost too good to eat for fear of
getting discontented. We are on half rations of biscuit, which means