We feel his presence, but it is not long before we see him. How he must worry his tailor. Tall and well-proportioned above, he falls away from his waist downwards. It is this lower weediness which evidently troubles the man who fashions his clothes. But it is his face we look at. That cold blue eye which is the basilisk of the British Army. The firm jaw and the cruel mouth, of which we read in 1898. But presumably this is only the stereotyped "military hero" that the papers always keep "set up" for the advent of successful generals. None of it was visible here. A round, red, and somewhat puffy face. Square head with staff cap set carelessly upon it. Heavy moustaches covering a somewhat mobile mouth, at the moment inclined to smile. Eyes just anyhow; heavy, but not overpowering eyebrows. In fact, a very ordinary face of a man scarcely past his prime. Hardly a figure that you would have remarked if it had not been for the gilt upon his hat--in fact it was all a disappointing discovery. He was pacing up and down with his hands on his hips, and elbows pointing backwards, talking good-naturedly to a colonel man, who was evidently just off "trek," and with his overgrown gait and ponderous step the great Kitchener did not look half as imposing as his travel-stained companion. The chief was explaining something to the colonel. They paced up and down together for a few minutes, then stopped just in front of us, and the conversation was as follows:-- _Chief._ "All right; I will soon find you a staff. Let me see; you have a brigade-major?" _Colonel._ "Yes; but he is at Hanover Road!" _Chief._ "That's all right; you will collect him in good time. You want a chief for your staff. Here, you (_and he beckoned a colonel in palpably just-out-from-England kit, who was standing by_); what are you doing here? You will be chief of the staff to the New Cavalry Brigade!" _New Colonel._ "But, sir--" _Chief._ "That's all right. (_Reverting to his original attitude._) Now you want transport and supply officers. See that depot over there? (_nodding his head towards the De Aar supply depot._) Go and collect them there--quote me as your authority. There you are fitted up; you can round up part of your brigade to-night and be off at daybreak to-morrow. Wait; you will want an intelligence officer. (_Here he swung round and ran his eye over the miscellaneous gathering of all ranks assembled on the platform. He singled out a bedraggled officer from amongst the group who had arrived the preceding night in the van of the ill-natured Africander guard._) What are you doing here?" _Officer._ "Trying to rejoin, sir." _Chief._ "Where have you come from?" _Officer._ "Deelfontein--convalescent, sir."