concealed. As soon as the flying rebel was in safety the Boers opened fire,
shooting Peter Falla, the trooper, twice through the arm, one bullet
entering a few inches below the shoulder, the other shattering the bone a
little way above the elbow. The corporal got away safely, taking his
wounded comrade with him. Our fellows rode out and swept the veldt for
miles, but saw no more of the enemy. So ended what has grandiloquently been
termed "an Australian engagement," which, I may add, is just the kind of
flapdoodle our troopers do not want. What they most desire on earth at
present is an opportunity to show what they are made of. They don't want
cheap newspaper puffs, nor laudatory speeches from generals. They want to
get into grip with the enemy, and, as an Australian, let me say now that
Imperial federation will get a greater shock by keeping these fine fellows
out of action than by anything else that could happen under heaven. They
did not come here on a picnic party, they did not come for a circus; they
don't want a lot of maudlin sentiment wasted on them whilst they stay out
of the firing line to mind the jam, or give the African girls a treat.

Mr. Chamberlain has made a good many mistakes in regard to the war,
mistakes that will live in history when his very name is forgotten, but he
need not add to them by alienating Australian sentiment by coddling men who
came across the Indian Ocean to prove to the whole world that on the field
of battle they are as good as their sires. Our fellows have got hold of a
rumour (the prophets only could tell whence camp rumours originate) that
instructions have been received from England that they are to be kept out
of danger, and a madder lot of men you could not find anywhere between here
and Tophet. They wanted to send a petition to Lord Roberts asking to be
allowed to face the enemy, but though the officers are quite as sore as the
men, they could not permit such a breach of discipline. So now the men ease
their feelings by jeering at each other.