The scene was indeed a strange one. A rough Boer kitchen lit by a dingy dip. The light of the yellow flame impeded by "truck" suspended from the rafters--a side of mutton, some _biltong_, strings of onions and beetroots. In the corner a more or less modern fire-range, in front of which stood a group of officers, comprising the brigadier, his staff, and the two officers of the advance-guard, all in various stages of _deshabille_, some trying to get warm, some to dry their wringing clothes, and others to stoke the fire and boil a pot. Add to these the plump hostess and her tribe of all-aged daughters, whom no exposure of masculine limbs and under-dress seemed to terrify. This did not look like catching De Wet--but then much may take place between midnight and daybreak. A chapter could be filled with the miseries which the troops suffered that night, and this being the case, it would be ungracious to dilate upon the sumptuous nature of the feast within the farmhouse. Let it suffice that during its discussion the brigadier cast over the situation and was ready, with the coffee which Madam Embonpoint contributed to the entertainment, with his plan to amend the chaos which the elements had made of his original undertaking. _Brigadier_ (_stirring his cup thoughtfully until the hostess was out of the room_). "Mr Intelligence, what do you make the distance between this and the pass this side of Fauresmith?" _Intelligence Officer._ "Three- to five-and-twenty miles, sir." _B._ "Have you any one who knows the way?" _I. O._ "Yes, sir, there is a man in the Light Horse who has done some transport riding in the Southern Free State, who says he knows something about it." _B._ "Better and better (_turning to the captain of the advance-guard_). Now, I am going to put you in the way of a very big thing. You are senior captain in your corps, are you not?" _Captain._ "Yes, sir, senior captain, adjutant, and second in command; we have got no majors!"