aps not.

Eleven thirty a.m. Have just had an awful shock to my nervous system. A
sergeant has been up and served us out with the first Yeomanry comforts
we have ever seen, much less had. Each of us has received a 1/4-lb. tin
of Sextant Navy Cut tobacco. For the present, I cannot write more, I am
too overcome.

(_Resumed._)

I feel more composed now. We have just been told that two cases of
"comforts" were sent out to us, but have been rifled of their best
contents; so farewell to condensed milk, sardines, jam, etc.

Last night I was on the kopje again. Paget or somebody else being
reported as driving the Boers towards this range of hills (Magaliesberg)
we were told to be specially vigilant. The night was as dark as Erebus,
and my turn to post the relief came on at eleven, the post being about
forty yards away from where we were sleeping, and the intervening ground
a perfect rockery, the task of getting there was no particular fun. As I
relieved the post every hour-and-a-half, I had four or five stumbling,
ankle-twisting, shin-barking journeys. At about two we had the usual
storm, and the accompanying lightning was most useful in illuminating me
on my weary way. The descent of the kopje this morning was, I think,
more fagging than the previous evening's ascent, though quicker as you
can imagine. Then came the cause of my wrath. The Fifes, who went after
mails, had returned, and there were none for us--of course. However,

"Hope springs eternal in the Yeoman's breast."

Some more fellows have gone into Rietfontein to-day, and there is just
the chance.

An hour ago I had a most necessary shave and wash. All the pieces of
looking-glass in the possession of the squadron having long since been
lost or reduced to the smallest of atoms, this operation has to be
performed without a mirror, though now and again Narcissus-like, I catch
a glimpse of my features in the soapy, dirty water.

Friday, October 26th. It rained all last night, and has hardly left off
yet. I have not a dry rag to my name. Even my martial cloak is sopping,
though the lining is what, considering all things, I might call dry. So
sitting on my upturned saddle beneath a weeping (not willow) tree, on
the branches of which my wet blanket is spread above my head, I am going
to amuse myself by writing letters. We have a few tents here, but as it
is fifteen to a tent, and asphyxiation is not a death we devoted band of
five Sussex men have an inclinatio