of the telegraph office, and the importance of the telegraphist suddenly
grew almost too great to bear with becoming modesty.

One Sunday morning, however, the office wore a deserted look. The Dutch
inhabitants were engaged in courteously escorting those of British birth
or sympathies over the border, and I was alone. After a long interval of
silence the instrument began ticking off a message--

"Elandslaagte--flight--lancers!"

Then came the list of the fallen. Name after name of well-known men fell
like lead upon the ear. Finally my colleague at the other end gently
signalled that of my uncle, followed by the sympathetic remark: "Sorry,
old man."

I could write no more. What, my uncle dead! General Kock, Major Hall,
Advocate Coster--all dead! It seemed impossible. We could not understand
it, this first initiation of ours into war's horrible reality.

Within a week reinforcements were despatched from our district. I
obtained a few weeks' leave of absence and accompanied them.

We were an interesting band. Two hundred strong, we counted among our
number farmers, clerks, schoolmasters, students, and a publican. My mess
consisted of a Colonial, an Irishman, a Hollander, a German, a Boer, and
a Jew. It must not be imagined, however, that we were a cosmopolitan
crowd, for the remaining hundred and ninety-four were nearly all true
Boers, mostly of the backwoods type, extremely conservative, and
inclined to be rather condescending in their attitude towards the
clean-shaven town-dwellers. The almost universal respect inspired by a