I told myself it was a reminiscence of the veld, some spot down in the Wakkerstroom country, though for the life of me I couldn't place it.
I pass over the next three days, for they were one uninterrupted series of heart-breaks.

Hussin and Peter scoured the country for horses, Blenkiron sat in the barn and played Patience, while I haunted the roadside near the bridge in the hope of picking up some kind of conveyance.

My task was perfectly futile.

The columns passed, casting wondering eyes on the wrecked car among the frozen rushes, but they could offer no help.

My friend the Turkish officer promised to wire to Angora from some place or other for a fresh car, but, remembering the state of affairs at Angora, I had no hope from that quarter.