One day our scouts made a splendid haul, bringing into camp that
celebrated, devil-may-care animal, the war-correspondent. His story was
that he had wandered out of Ladysmith with a packet of
newspapers--"merely to exchange notes and to challenge you for a cricket
match!"

Squatted on the ground, crowds of bearded Boers gazing at him with
fierce interest, he looked anything but comfortable, and no wonder, for
the word _spion_ was often uttered. His colour was a pale green, while
his teeth chattered audibly. He was subsequently sent to Pretoria, and
thence exiled to civilisation, _viâ_ Delagoa Bay.

On the same day we captured three natives bearing British despatches. As
these runners were giving considerable trouble, it was decided to
execute one and send the other two to spread the news among their
friends--black and white.

The grave was already dug, when General Joubert, always against harsh
measures, decided to spare the Kafir's life. The contrast between the
bearing of this savage and that of the war-correspondent was most
striking.

Sometimes the merits of the different commandoes would be discussed. The
palm was generally awarded to the Irish Brigade and the Johannesburg
Police, two splendid corps, always ready for anything, and possessing
what we others painfully lacked--discipline.

The burghers used to relate with much relish a story of how one day the
British shells came so fast that even our artillerymen did not dare