nt pretty quietly
through the morning, except that there was a good deal of firing--shell
and rifle--on the high ridge south-west, where the Manchesters are.
About two o'clock I started for that position, and being fond of short
cuts, thought I would ford the river at a break in its steep banks
instead of going round by the iron bridge. Mr. Melton Prior was with me,
for I had promised to show him a quiet place for sketching the whole
view of the town in peace. As we came to the river a shell pitched near
us, but we did not take much notice of it. In the middle of the ford we
took the opportunity of letting the horses drink, and they stood
drinking like the orphan lamb. Suddenly there was something more than
the usual bang, crash, scream of a big shell, and the water was splashed
with lumps and shreds of iron, my hat was knocked off and lay wrecked in
the stream, and the horses were dashing this way and that with terror.
"Are you killed?" shouted Mr. Prior. "I don't think so," I said. "Are
you?" And then I had to lash my horse back to the place lest my hat
should sail down-stream and adorn a Queen's enemy. There is nothing like
shell-fire for giving lessons in horsemanship.

[Illustration: THE DRIFT AND WATERING PLACE]

The Manchesters had been having an uncomfortable time of it, and I found
Sir George White and his staff up on their hill. As we walked about, the
little puffs of dust kept rising at our feet. We were within rifle-fire,
though at long range. Now and then a very peculiar little shell was
thrown at us. One went straight through a tent, but we could not find it
afterwards. It was a shell like a viper. I left the Manchesters putting
up barbed-wire entanglements to increase their defence, and came back to
try to find another runner. The shells were falling very thick in the
town, and for the first time people were rather scared. As I write one
bursts just over this little tin house. It is shrapnel, and the iron
rain falls hammering on the roof, but it does not come through. Two
windows only are broken. Probably it burst too high.

_November 8, 1899._

Fairly quiet day. The great event was the appearance of a new "Long Tom"
on the Bulwan. He is to be called "Puffing Billy," from the vast
quantity of smoke he pours out. Nothing else of great importance
happened. Major Grant, of the Intelligence, was slightly wounded while
sketching on the Manchesters' ridge. Coolies wandered about the streets
all day w