of wheeze and squeak in the swishing of trees and river. Up the hill,
through the town, in the bar of the ultra-English hotel, proceeded this
dialogue.

_A fat man_ (_thunderously, nursing a Lee-Metford sporting rifle_).
Well, you've yourselves to blame. I've done my best. With fifty men I'd
have held this place against a thousand Boers, and not ten men'd join.

_A thin-faced man_ (_piping_). We haven't got the rifles. Every
Dutchman's armed, and how many rifles will you find among the English?

_Fat man_ (_shooting home bolt of Lee-Metford_). And who's fault's that?
I've left my property in the Free State, and odds are I shall lose every
penny I've got--what part? all over--and come here on to British soil,
and what do I find? With fifty men I'd hold this place--

_Thin-faced man._ They'll be here to-night, old De Wet says, and they're
to come here and sjambok the Englishmen who've been talking too much.
That's what comes of being loyal!

_Fat man._ Loyal! With fifty men--

_Brown-faced, grey-haired man_ (_smoking deep-bowled pipe in corner_).
No, you wouldn't.

_Fat man_ (_playing with sights of Lee-Metford_). What! Not keep the
bridge with fifty men--

_Brown-faced, grey-haired man._ And they'd cross by the old drift, and
be on every side of you in ten minutes.