ard a growing whisper high above my head, as though a
falling star had lost its way, and plump came a great shell into the
grass, making a 3ft. hole in the reddish earth, and bursting with no end
of a bang. We collected nearly all the bits and fitted them together.
It was an eight or nine-inch globe, reminding one of those "bomb-shells"
which heroes of old used to catch up in their hands and plunge into
water-buckets. The most amusing part of it was the fuse--a thick plug of
wood running through the shell and pierced with the flash-channel down
its centre. It was burnt to charcoal, but we could still make out the
holes bored in its side at intervals to convert it into a time-fuse.
This is the "one mortar" catalogued in our Intelligence book. It was
satisfactory to have located it. Two guns of the 69th Battery threw
shrapnel over its head all morning; then the Naval guns had a turn and
seem to have reduced it to silence.

In the afternoon there was an auction of Steevens's horses and camp
equipment. Many officers came, and the usual knot of greedy civilians on
the look-out for a bargain. As auctioneer I had great satisfaction in
running the prices up beyond their calculation. But in another way they
got the best of the old country to-day. Colonel Stoneman, having
discovered a hidden store of sugar, was selling it at the fair price of
4d. a pound to any one who pledged his word he was sick and in need of
it. Round clustered the innocent local dealers with sick and sorry
looks, swearing by any god they could remember that sugar alone would
save their lives, paid their fourpences, and then sold the stuff for 2s.
outside the door.

_January 20, 1900._

Again I was on Observation Hill two or three times in the day. It is
impossible to keep away from it long. The rumble of the British guns was
loud but intermittent, but the Boer camps remain where they were. With
us the bombardment continued pretty steadily. After a silence of two
days "Puffing Billy," of Bulwan, threw one shell into the town and six
among the Devons. His usual answer to the report that he has worn
himself out or been carried away. Whilst he was firing I tried to get
sight of a small mocking bird, which has learnt to imitate the warning
whistle of the sentries. In the Gordons the Hindoo, Purriboo Singh, from
Benares, stands on a huge heap of sacks under an umbrella all day and
screams when he sees the big gun flash. But in the other camps, as I
have