change. But what a revelation, is it not? Are these the prisoners that
we played at dice for? One thing in it all pleases me, and that is the
temper and attitude of England. I like the gravity, the quiet, dogged
rolling up of the shirt-sleeves much better than the blustering,
wipe-something-off-a-slate style which the papers made so familiar to us
at the beginning.




LETTER IX

THE ADVANCE


MODDER RIVER CAMP,

_February 13_, 1900.

We are back in the old camp, but only for a few hours. This afternoon we
march. Yesterday, crossing the line, we had a glimpse of Rimington and
the rest of the corps. They have come up with French, and are off
eastward on the flank march. We shall be after them hotfoot before dark.
Things begin to shape themselves. We are going to bring our right arm
round, leaving Magersfontein untouched, and relieve Kimberley by a flank
march in force. Methuen stays here. Poor fellow! I wish him joy of it.
Bobs and Kitchener direct the advance; French heads it. They say we
shall march 50,000 strong. The line is choked with troop trains,
batteries, siege guns, naval guns, and endless truckloads of stores and
provisions. _At last!_ is every one's feelings. The long waited for