The horseflesh is brought up to the station in huge red halves of beast, run into the shed on trucks, cut up by the Kaffirs, who also pound the bones, thrown into the boiling cauldron, and so--"Farewell, my Arab steed!" There is not enough hydrochloric or pepsine left in the town to make a true extract of horse, but by boiling and evaporation the strength is raised till every pint issued will make three pints of soup.

A punkah is to be fitted to make the evaporation more rapid, and perhaps my horse will ultimately appear as a jelly or a lozenge.

But at present the stuff is nothing but a strong kind of soup, and at the first issue to-day the men had to carry it in the ordinary camp-kettles.
Every man in the garrison to-night receives a pint of horse essence hot.
I tasted it in the cauldron, straight from the horse, and found it so sustaining that I haven't eaten anything since.

The dainty Kaffirs and Colonial Volunteers refuse to eat horse in any form.

But the sensible British soldier takes to it like a vulture, and begs for the lumps of stewed flesh from which the soup has been made.