On Thursday morning we were still laughing when the guns of Wimbleton
proceeded to query our hilarity. Wimbleton Ridge, unfortunately, was
rather far away; we were unable to respond. Whether it was that the
revels of our risible faculties were ultimately attributed to the
cattle-stealing of Wednesday night, an energetic assault was suddenly
opened on Kenilworth. It is true, we had affected a tidy confiscation;
but that joke was now old--too old to laugh at. We had some "snipers"
all day endeavouring to worry the Boers. A mounted patrol, also, worried
them. In the afternoon the rain came down to complete their misery, and
the imperturbable oxen were let browse in peace.

And from another quarter there was coming worry, to shatter the dreams,
the hopes, the "castles in the air" of Kimberley. The Relief Column was
approaching; this time for certain. We had heard like legends before,
but they were _only_ legends (before). The Column was really coming. A
native had come in with the news. Now, of a white man's reliability a
doubt would not be tolerated; but the native!--well, the native had
acquired a reputation for bad, bold mendacity that was altogether too
unscientific to be appreciated by a close and subtle aristocracy. Still,
the story was nice; we liked to believe it. There are natives and
natives--there is even a _Booker_ Washington--all men are not liars. The
Press, too, attached credence to the tale, and that went far to convince
us of its truth. A glance at the paper next morning established the
veracity of the Bantu.

"We are authorised to state that a strong force has left Orange River,
and is moving forward to the relief of Kimberley."

Such was the message. The joy was universal. In a few days the column