"The Boer's name is Voorboom," he said, "and he is in earnest. I suppose I shall be sent home in disgrace."
At the mention of the name three men spoke up saying that of all the rascals in need of a hanging this Voorboom was the sorriest. One had seen Boer combatants in Voorboom's house, another had seen Voorboom's brother trundling into a clump of bushes an English carriage which he had stolen; a third had met Voorboom and his negroes riding far and wide gathering up loose horses--English or Boer--which he was undoubtedly now bringing to town to sell to the Army.
"Give him an hour in which to leave town or go to jail at Simon's Bay," said a Colonel, ending the incident.
Mr. Kipling was in town at last and had promised us his assistance, but we could not then know whether this would be great or little; we could not have hoped or dreamed that it would prove a quarter or a third part of all our work, as it did. On the other hand, we were only too painfully aware that very little aid was being vouchsafed us. We found ourselves with a great newspaper on our hands, a newspaper with a gaping void of terrible dimensions. "Reuter" had promised its despatches to us, but these were not allowed on the crowded telegraph wires for days at a time, as it proved, and the whole burden was upon us, joined to the necessity we felt to do our full duty to our newspapers at home--one at least of which demanded a despatch every day and four letters a week if possible. The army had been counted upon for valuable and voluminous help, and it was practically sending us in nothing. Mr. Landon reminds me that within an hour of Mr. Kipling's arrival in Bloemfontein he went to him and said (with considerable trepidation): "We have put you down as an editor of THE FRIEND, and we have announced it." Then Mr. Landon held his breath and waited. "Well," Mr. Kipling replied, "I should have been mortally offended if you had not. Where's the office? I want to go to work as soon as I have finished my grape jam." He did literally go straight to work. As he entered our editorial dustbin he sniffed the mingled odours of ink, wet paper, and dust, and said, "It's quite like old times in India." It was agreed that I should stir up the consciences and pens of all our friends and readers in an ink-blast, fierce and loud. I did this in the editorial of the day entitled, "The Silent Army":--
