“Well, it’s not a long story to tell,” said he, lighting a cigarette. “You remember that morning fight at Buffelsspruit, outside Pretoria, on the Eastern railway line? You heard I was hit?”

“Yes, I heard that but I never got particulars.”

“Three of us got separated from the others. It was very broken country, you may remember. There was Simpson⁠—the fellow we called Baldy Simpson⁠—and Anderson, and I. We were clearing brother Boer, but he lay low and got the three of us. The other two were killed. I got an elephant bullet through my shoulder. I stuck on to my horse, however, and he galloped several miles before I fainted and rolled off the saddle.