“IN THIS MANNER WE FINALLY REACHED THE BANK.”
I could plainly see that the poor fellow was past all hope, but I did all I could to ease his last moments for him. In the afternoon he became unconscious again, and at about five o’clock passed quietly away. I buried him under a large tree, near the entrance to the circle of small kopjes by which the “staad” was surrounded, and, cutting a small wooden cross, nailed it to the tree, with the simple inscription, “Jim. 21-10-’02.”
Next day, sad at heart, I started off to Pietersburg, having to walk the whole way. Here I reported the matter to the police, who sent out a patrol to investigate the affair, and there the matter ended so far as I was concerned. I never recovered any of the oxen, and the wagon, or the remains of it, so far as I am aware, still lies in the river-bed. I have never done any trading in that district since.
A Belgian Smoking Competition.
By A. Pitcairn-Knowles.
There is more tobacco per head consumed in Belgium than in any other country in the world. It is therefore fitting, perhaps, that one of the favourite pastimes of the menfolk should be smoking competitions, at which valuable prizes are awarded to the man who can make his pipeful of tobacco last the longest. Our representative was recently the guest of honour at a competition held by the premier smokers’ club of Belgium, and here describes and illustrates what he saw.
BRUGSCHE ROOKERSCLUB.