"Don't you see, sir, yesterday morning a commando was here. Then our
loyal friend had these two pictures hanging up in his parlour. Last
evening the squadron of 20th Dragoons passed through. Uncle here saw
them coming, so he hid away Oom Paul and Steyn and put the Queen and
the Prince of Wales on the wall. After the squadron had gone he
expected his commando back again, so up go the Presidents. We came
along first, so there had to be another transformation-scene, which I
have partially disturbed. I'll bet my bottom dollar that their Royal
Highnesses are now adorning the parlour." (Sinking his voice.) "It's a
very fair weather-cock, sir; we are not a hundred miles from a pretty
strong commando. It must be under some influential leader, or we
shouldn't have this little burlesque."

The farmer smiled benignly and pressed his hospitality upon the
troops. Nor had the Tiger been mistaken. There, sure enough, upon the
walls of the sitting-room reposed coloured portraits of the late Queen
and King Edward, while, as the Intelligence officer stepped into the
room, a strapping daughter sat down to the piano and played the first
bars of the National Anthem. Poor subterfuge, since the damsel had
overlooked the Free State favour pinned upon her breast!

"Eggs--butter? Yes, they had both; they would only be too glad--would
not the general take food with them?"

_Click-clock! Click-clock!_[14]

The main body had just come in, the gunners were watering their
horses, the Dragoons taking out their bits. The gunners knew what it
meant, and the little major, who for some reason had undone his
gaiter, shouted, without changing his attitude, the only necessary
order, "Hook in!" To the Dragoons the muffled reports meant nothing.
For all they knew or cared at the moment that hollow echoing rhythm
might have been a housewife beating carpets. But the General, the
Intelligence officer, and the Tiger knew.

_Click-clock, click-clock!_

Here came the news. A heavy dragoon, sweating from every pore, his
face portraying the satisfaction of a man first shot over, came
galloping in. He handed to the general a slip of paper from the
subaltern in command of the advance-guard:--

"11.55. Enemy firing on my left flanking patrol--about fifty mounted
men advancing towards me. I am on a rise 500 yards to the south-west
of the farmhouse."

"That is a good boy," said the brigadier musingly, as he swung round
on his heel and took in the topography o