On Monday (27th) our _reveille_ was at five, and we marched to Waterval, where we saw the fine, large aviary in which the Boers kept the British prisoners till June, and the next day (Tuesday) we were up at 2.30, and marched into Pretoria and camped on the Racecourse at 11 o'clock. No sooner had I dragged my horse in and picketed him in our lines, than I managed to obtain town leave, and, having hastily washed, I boarded a mule waggon and was soon jolted into Pretoria. There I got Mails galore, found my kit bag had come up from Cape Town, and met dozens of old comrades in the Police, who insisted on making me have tea with them (with _condensed milk_ in it, oh, ye gods!) and jam on real _bread_, and generally made a fuss of me, and listened with amused attention to a truthful account of the death of _Bete Noire_ and my subsequent Dreyfus-like degradation. Rattling good fellows they were to me, and under their benign influence the petty trials and inconveniences of the past seven or eight weeks faded away like a dissolving view. The authorities have also served us out with clothes. I have received a lovely khaki tunic with beautiful brass buttons stamped with Lion and Unicorn, "_Dieu et mon Droit_," and a' that. And the fit is a wonderful fit; it is truly marvellous how they can turn out such a well-fitting coat for--a big boy of twelve. And I have boots! A grand fit for a policeman. Only I am neither a boy of twelve nor a policeman. WITH CLEMENTS. HEKPOORT, _September 5th, 1900._ We've stood to our nags (confound them!) We've thought of our native land; We have cussed our English brother, (For he does not understand.) We've cussed the whole of creation, And the cross swings low for the morn, Last straw (and by stern obligation) To the Empire's load we've borne.