The accompanying wood-cut is a portrait of the well-known author, Dr. A. Conan Doyle. The author of "Sherlock Holmes," who is so generously giving his time and whole-hearted attention to the sick and wounded, will, by the use of the "Holmesian method," be able to tell, without a moment's hesitation, at what period of his eventful life the photograph was taken, of which the accompanying block is a representation.
ANOTHER LETTER HOME.
BY CAPTAIN CECIL LOWTHER.
My dear Father,—Since I last wrote to you we have been having a quiet time down South "pacifying the country." This consists in collecting arms—which we keep—and inviting the burghers to take oaths—which they don't keep—at least some of them don't. Every one seemed pleased to see us and very ready to tell all about their neighbours' misdoings. If one believes only half of what one was told, the smiling little village where we were quartered must be only one station this side of a very warm place.
A spice of danger is added to police work if there are other detachments in the neighbourhood. It is this wise. Two of our captains who were out after springbok one day were suddenly glued to the ground by the well-known whistle of bullets over their heads. Leaving their respective hills after dark, they returned and, with quivering lips, recounted to us the dangers through which they had passed. An eviction party was organised and a thorough search made for hidden rifles on the farm where the incident had occurred.
Not unnaturally, none were found, as we heard on our return that Stoke had been out with six Non-Commissioned Officers and had walked the country in line shooting at everything that moved.
You remember Stoke, don't you? He was the fellow who was not going to bring a knife and fork out with him as everybody on service would of course eat with his fingers.
Do you remember that rather pretty song that MacRavish in the A.S.C. used to sing? "Lay down thy lute, my dearest." The Provost-Marshal has now adopted it for his own, and I have had to give up all the loot I had collected in the last three months. It is very disappointing, but I suppose he will give it back when his staff have taken what they want.
We have been having a bad time the last few days, as there are detachments of troops constantly passing to the front, and unless one lies quite quiet they shoot at one. Their scouts, too, bang through the middle of the kitchens and camp "looking for the enemy," which is rather annoying for us, but it does not do to interfere.
All the rifles are supposed to have been given up in the neighbourhood, so I was hurt in two senses—when I sat down on a very hard sofa in a farm close by and found that the cushion was stuffed with two Mausers and a lot of ammunition. The farmer professed to be as surprised as I was, but I don't see why he should have objected to my taking them away. He said they must have been left there accidentally by Potgieter or Pienaar. As you cannot throw a stone without hitting some one of those two names his statement was rather indefinite, besides being untruthful. It is awfully good of you sending me out all those woollen comforters and meat tabloids, but next time you are sending I wish you could send me enough stuff to put a new seat and knees to my breeches, as they are both deficient at present and even on active service they scarcely come under the head of "luxuries."—Your affectionate son, "Bertie."