He had been set on solid masonry, was mounted on high iron wheels, and a short railway line had been laid down for purposes of locomotion. A thick bomb-proof arch was built over him, and huge pyramids of shells were piled up round about him. A Howitzer and a field-gun, which stood close by, were then destroyed, and a Maxim was reserved to be brought away. In about twenty minutes the Engineers announced that they were ready. Like goats they had swarmed about him, and now it was Long Tom’s turn to say “Baa!” The firing fuse was attached. “Keep back! keep back!” There was heard a dull roar from the monster, and the whole mountain flared out with a flash as if of lightning. “Had the gun-cotton done its work?” They ran back to inspect. “Barrel rent, sir; part of the muzzle torn away.” Long Tom has fired his last shot. The ladies of Ladysmith will be very thankful for this small favour. The men came back, most of them carrying small trophies. Down they scrambled; no barbed wire, no impediments. Who would have thought that these English would stir out o’ night? Had they no desire to sleep and rest? But when they got down they found some had been wounded. Major Henderson had been twice hit--thumb almost torn away, and a couple of slugs in his thigh. Yet he had never halted, and was the first to tackle the gun. A few privates were also hit, but only one so seriously as to be left behind in care of a surgeon. Great rejoicing at breakfast, and congratulations from Sir George White. But the time wore on, and sickness came--far worse and more fatal than shell-fire. There were hundreds of fever patients in the hospital outside at Intombi Spruit. Fever--typhoid, enteric--and no stimulants, no jellies, no beef-tea! The only luxury was a small ration of tinned milk. Scores of convalescents died of sheer starvation. The doctors were overworked, and they, too, broke down. No wonder that many in the garrison chafed at inaction, found fault with their superiors, and asked bitterly: “Are we to stay here till we rot?” By New Year’s Eve Ladysmith had endured some 8,000 rounds of shell; many buildings had been hit half a dozen times. On New Year’s Day an officer of the Lancers was sleeping in his house, when a shell exploded and buried him in a heap of timber. When they pulled the mess off him, he sat up, rubbed the dust out of his eyes, and asked, “What o’clock is it?” He was unhurt. There was a small bugler of the 5th Lancers who was the envy of every boy in the town. This boy was in the battle at Elands Laagte, and when a regiment seemed wavering he sounded the call, the advance, the charge. The result was that that regiment faced the music, and did valiantly. A General rode up to the bugler after the fight, and took his name, saying: “You are a plucky boy. I shall report you!” For this boy, after sounding the charge, had drawn his revolver, rode into the thick of the fight on his Colonel’s flank, and shot three Boers one after the other.