per annum.
While nominally with the Police these men do no duties, but draw ten
shillings a day, besides having the advantage, when it rains, of
possessing a roof over their heads, and the pleasurable knowledge that
their pig-headed comrades who have joined as Yeomen and elect to remain
so to the end, are in the diminished lines about two miles out of the
town, doing fatigues and guards innumerable, and drawing therefor the
munificent sum of 1s. 5d. per _diem_. Every day for the last week the
captain and officers have been asking the men if they wish to join the
Police or would like to have civil employment found them; and the
company has been more like a registry office than anything else I can
think of. To-day (Sunday) we--nine of us and a sergeant--went to church
with other detachments of the 7th I.Y. It was no open-air church parade,
where one has to stand all through the service, but a genuine church
with pews that we went to. It is called St. Alban's Cathedral, and is
evidently the chief English Church in Pretoria. It was the first time we
had been in a church since leaving Shorncliffe; the service was very
reminiscent of a home one and exceedingly restful. The illusion was
complete when, at the conclusion of the service, _a collection was
taken_. Now that the rain is all over, we have had tents served out to
us. The battalion sergeant-major came round a few days ago with "Now,
then, you fellows, down with those _rabbit hutches_ ("The Grange") and
put these tents up." They are Boer tents, small and oblong in shape.
Ours is very rotten, and has a big hole burnt in the top as well as a
large rent at one end. These we have, however, patched up to our
satisfaction and comfort. As we are here for the deuce knows how long,
the beloved army red tape and routine is coming into vogue again.

ENTERTAINING A GUEST.

HOREN'S NEK,
(About 10 miles W. of Pretoria).
_Thursday, July 5th, 1900._

Here goes for another letter, so pull yourself together. I am here with
twenty others of the 7th I.Y. on outlying picket, and although the
affair began rather joylessly, we are getting on very well now. By way
of parenthesis, it is more than passing strange that whenever I try to
write a letter somebody always starts singing. At present, a man of the
Dorsets is lifting his voice in anguish and promising to "Take Kathleen
home