Shortly after our departure, at a station the name of which I forget--perhaps intentionally, for I feel a qualm of remorse at the recollection of it--a little fox-terrier playing about the train jumped into our carriage. We were just starting.... It would have been cruel to throw the poor little beast on to the platform at the risk of maiming it or causing it to be run over.... In short, we kept her, and christened her Nelly. She was very pretty, pure white, with a black patch on her head and another on her back. I felt remorseful--until the next station; then I overcame my scruples. I am so fond of dogs. At Brandfort, a counter-order awaits us, directing us to go to Bloemfontein, where the Colonel awaits us, in consequence of Lord Roberts’ latest operations. We land our cart, our mules, and our provisions. But our worn-out horses have to be replaced. The Colonel, impatient to be gone, will not wait for us, and starts for Petrusburg, where we are to join him as quickly as possible. On the 28th, the news of Cronje’s capitulation reaches us. We know nothing of the details, but the moral effect is terrible. We had got together hastily at Pretoria a cart, harness, mules, and three black boys. Individually, each of these acquisitions is highly satisfactory. The cart is a superb omnibus, freshly painted gray; the harness is almost new, the mules very handsome--a little black one in particular. The boys were chosen to suit all tastes: one tall, one short, and one of medium height. But it proves very difficult to establish any sort of cohesion between these various elements. At the first attempt the harness breaks, the mules bite and kick. It needs the cunning of an Apache even to approach the little black one. The boys are stupid, and speak neither Dutch nor English, nothing but Kaffir. The omnibus alone remains stationary, but it creaks and groans in a pitiable fashion when touched. A second experiment is no more successful than the first. The third gives a better result: the vehicle moves, and even goes very near to losing a wheel. This remarkable result is achieved, firstly, because all the rotten leathers of the harness are in pieces, after a double series of joltings and strainings; only the solid ones are left. Secondly, the pretty little black mule has run away, after breaking some dozen halters, so that we are saved the trouble of harnessing her. Lastly, we have stationed the three boys at a safe distance, begging them on no account to help us, and Michel, who as an old artilleryman is an adept in harness, does wonders. Finally we get off, escorting our omnibus, which groans aloud at every step. We look like ’The Attack on the Stage Coach’ in Buffalo Bill! V