It is with feelings of the deepest satisfaction that I look at the
address at the head of this notepaper. Indeed for the last five minutes
I have been staring at it dreamily without putting pen to paper,
repeating "Kimberley Club, Kimberley," to myself, vaguely thinking of
all it portends; the varied fortunes of the last three months; the
cheery setting out; the first battles, that already seem so long ago;
the repulse, and long, dreary wait by Modder; the gradual reconstruction
of the whole plan of attack, and now the final achievement. Christian
and I have been sharing a pint of champagne in the club bar. It was not
till I heard the bottle pop that I realised, as by a sudden inspiration,
that the British army had really attained its object at last. Very
gravely we gave each other luck, and gravely drank our wine. Both of us,
I am glad to be able to tell you, rose to the occasion, and as we looked
across the bubbles, no foolish chaff or laughter marred the moment.

I wrote you my last letter from old Modder just as we were leaving to
catch French. Marching light and fast, we got up with him on the night
of the 15th at the Klip Drift on the Modder, northeast of Jacobsdal.
From there we were sent back to guide on Kitchener, which we did,
bringing him to French's camp on the river by 6 A.M. next morning
(16th). We met on the way our little ambulance cart bobbing home with
the adjutant languidly reclining. He had had one of those escapes that
now and then come off. There was a high hill to the north, and up this
the previous morning, R., an active walker, had climbed to have a view
of the country. He reached the top, which is like a gable, slanting both
sides to a thin edge, and precisely as he did so, ten or a dozen great
hairy Boers reached it from the other side, and, at ten yards' distance
across the rock edge, their eyes met. Can you conceive a more disgusting
termination to a morning stroll? Without a word said, R. took to his