Now, you being an up-to-date paper, we thought you might like to have an account of the battle which hasn't ever yet appeared in any paper in the world, yet, as our Adjutant would say, was the most strategically important part of the whole blooming show. It was me and Billy and the Yank. Billy's a sailor--says he was leftenant in the Navy, and I really believe he might have been--he couldn't have learnt to ride so badly anywhere else, and how he faked himself through the riding test is a miracle--then his langwidge is beautiful. The Yank's a Yank; you can tell that by his langwidge, too, and me being an old soldier (12 years in the Buffs and discharge certificate all correct), I was made No. 1 of our section; our No. 4 was an Irishman we left behind at Orange with a broken head, all through fighting outside the Canteen. Well, when French left Modder, February 15th, we hadn't a horse among the three of us fit to carry his own skin; so there we was left. Our troop leader said he hoped to Heaven he'd seen the last of us, but all the same he gave us a written order, correct enough, to catch up the squadron as soon as possible. There wasn't much doing all day, barring a bit of cooking, but that evening we was sitting round the fire when an M.I. chap comes round and says he's heard there'd be free drinks for the Relief Force in Kimberley, and perhaps our pals was drinking 'em now. That was the first time our Billy really woke up all day. "Free drinks," sezee; "that's my sailing orders." Me and the Yank didn't mind, so we sounds boot and saddle to ourselves in the dark, and off we slips without a word to nobody. My horse seemed cheered up by the day's rest, but before I'd gone half a mile I found I got the wrong horse by mistake! and you'll hardly believe that both Billy and the Yank had made mistakes too! Lor', how we did laugh! but there, there ain't no accounting for horses in the dark. We each had our own notions of the road; the Yank swore he was tracking the big English cavalry horses; Billy was steering Nor' Wes' by Nor' on some star or other; and I didn't want to argufy, so I just shoves on a couple of lengths and marched on the Kimberley flashlight. We was going a fair pace too ("making six knots"), and had done near two hours, when all of a sudden we comes over a kopje right on to the top of a bivouack, fires and all. "Let's get"--"Go astern"--"Sections about"--and we did so, back behind the kopje, linked horses, and crawled up again on our hands and knees. "First thing," says I, quoting our Adjutant, "is to kalkulate the numbers of the enemy." "Twenty thousand," says Billy, who always did reckon a bit large. "Make it hundreds," says the Yank, sneering--"and I wouldn't mind betting a pint myself that there was the best part of two dozen of 'em." "Next point," says I, "who are they?" "I bleeve they're Highlanders, after all," says Billy; "see the way they're lowering whisky out of them bottles."