After passing Vereeniging and duly admiring the excellent work of the sappers, the mess-president proposed that they should sample the hampers he had provided for them. This was carried unanimously, but at that moment the train began to slow up, and, anxious to see every new place, we determined to wait until the train started again, and then enjoy our dinner in peace and comfort. The sudden explosion of a shell from 'Long Tom' in our midst could not have had a more demoralising effect than the news which greeted us when we came to a standstill. It arrived in the shape of a telegram from the General, ordering the officers to ride in the trucks with the men, and to keep a sharp look-out for attacks from both sides. So there was no chance of any dinners after all, and all our visions of chicken and tongue, whisky and sparklets, and a hot cup of tea or chocolate resolved themselves into a lump of chocolate out of one's haversack and a pull at one's water-bottle. The mess-president proved himself a man of resource on this trying occasion. With hunger gnawing at his vitals he saw a beautiful dinner laid out in a waiting-room for some staff officers. Unable to satisfy his comrades he saw no reason why he himself should go unsatisfied, and in the three or four minutes occupied by the engine in watering he hastily bolted a fine plate of roast beef and potatoes, not omitting a bottle of beer standing hard by, and jumped into the train at the last moment, thanking his astonished host and friend, Major Hickie of the 7th Fusiliers, as the train moved off into the darkness. Anything more cheerless than the remainder of that night journey it would be hard to conceive. In the first place, when there are forty men in an open truck, it is very difficult to find room for two more. In the second place, it was bitterly cold, and a pitch-dark night. In the third place, the even-money chance of a slab or two of gun-cotton on the line ahead was not a pleasing one to contemplate. In the fourth place, the men were ordered to 'charge magazines,' and to spend several hours jolting along with the cold barrel of a loaded rifle poking one in the ribs, or insinuatingly tucking itself into the nape of one's neck, could by no stretch of imagination or fire-eating ambition be called comforting. However, there was one fine piece of news at any rate to act as a compensation, the surrender of Commandant Prinsloo and three or four thousand men to General Hunter. [Illustration: Fifth Class on the Z.A.S.M.]