Later B.F. goes to investigate a nearby farm…

I settled these knotty points to my satisfaction, and off I trudged, with my field-glasses, and, of course, my Kodak, directing my steps towards the gleaming white walls of the little Dutch farm, nestling under the kopje to the north-east… About a quarter of a mile from the farm I was met by the owner, Mr. Andreas Brink, a tame or surrendered Boer farmer, and his two sons, Piet and Gert. “Such a nice man too,” with a pleasant face and long beard. He would insist on calling me “Captain,” and as any correction might have confused him, I did not think it worthwhile to make any, and after all I wasn’t so very far from my “company.”…

They escorted me to the farm, where the good wife and several daughters met us, and gave me a drink of milk, which was most acceptable after my long and dusty trek. The whole family appeared either to speak or to understand English, and we had a very friendly chat, during the course of which I gathered that there were no Boer commandos anywhere within miles, that the whole family cordially hoped that there never would be again, and that Brink was really a most loyal Briton, and had been much against the war, but had been forced to go on commando with his two sons. Their loyalty was evident, because there was an oleograph of the Queen on the wall, and one of the numerous flappers was playing our National Anthem on the harmonium as I entered.

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