"Well then," says the Yank, "you'd better ride up and say you're the General, and they'll drop the whisky and run." "Highlanders," says I, "don't care a cuss for Boers nor Generals, but say you're the Provost Marshal and they won't stop running this side of Kimberley." "Those men, sir," says the Yank, "air not Highlanders. Billy's eyes was took with them bottles and got no further. Those men don't wear leg curtains, nor even loud checked bags. They air Boers." And by Jove he was right. "Well then," says I, getting back to point three, "what's their position?" "Straight there," says the Yank. "Mostly lying on their stummicks," says Billy. "My friends," says I, "if your Adjutant should hear you now he'd break his blighted heart. Look here, there's General French lowering free drinks in Kimberley, ain't he? There's the British infantry at Modder, ten miles back, ain't they? And there's twenty thousand Boers plunk in the middle, ain't they? That means, as Adjy would say, General French is busted. Vaultin' ambition! Another orful disaster!" "My friends, we must reskew General French." "General be blowed!" says Billy; "let's reskew the whisky." "Well, bein' agreed on reskewin', wot's our plan of battle? A frontal attack is always to be depre--well, something that means it's a bally error." "Take 'em on the starboard quarter, then." "But the first principel of tactics is to mystify and mislead the foe." So far the Yank had been lying rather low, but now he chips in-- "Say, chum, you've pegged it out straight there, and if it ain't jumping your claim, I'll carry on the working." He did know a bit, the Yank did, and we'd fixed up the job in no time. He'd a bag of about a hundred loose cartridges he'd been carrying for days, and in two minutes he'd a nice hot glowing fire right down in a cleft behind the kopjy where it didn't show a bit. "Now boys," says I, taking command again, "that bag of cartridges on the top of that fire will make as much musketry noise as a brigade fits of joy. We'll let them have a few real bullets bang in the middle to help out the illooshun. We're three full battalions advancing to attack, and mind you let them hear it; not a word till the first cartridge pops off, and then all the noise you know." We extended to fifty paces. Billy said it would come more natural if he was the Naval Brigade, and we puts him on the right. The Yank wanted to be the "Fighting Fifth," it reminded him somehow of fighting Stonewall Jackson down South; and the old Buffs was good enough for me, and I took the left. When we'd fixed our places up nicely and charged magazines, the Yank slips back to our fire and plunks the bag of cartridges down in the middle. Then we waited what seemed like a year. "Bang!" from the fire. "At 'em, my hearties!" roared the Naval Brigade; "broadside fire--don't lay on the whisky--well done, _Condor_!"