They were excellent--or, as Denham said, would have been if we had possessed some salt.
One of our greatest difficulties was the want of fuel, for it was scarce around the old stronghold when we had cut down all the trees and bushes growing out of the ledges and cracks about the kopje; and the question had been mooted whether we should not be obliged to blast out some of the roots wedged in amongst the stones by ramming in cartridges.

But while there was any possibility of making adventurous raids in all directions where patches of trees existed, and the men could gallop out, halt, and each man, armed with sword and a piece of rein, cut his faggot, bind it up, and gallop back, gunpowder was too valuable to be used for blasting roots.

This was now, however, becoming a terribly difficult problem, for the enemy--eagerly seizing upon the chance to make reprisals when these were attended by no great risk to themselves-- had more than once chased and nearly captured our foraging parties.
Consequently all thoughts of fires for warmth during the cold nights, when they would have been most welcome, were abandoned; while the men eagerly volunteered for cooks' assistants; and the officers were not above gathering in the old furnace-place of a night, after the cooking was over, for the benefit of the warmth still emitted by the impromptu oven.
Meanwhile every economy possible was practised, and the fuel store jealously guarded.

The said fuel store consisted of every bone of the slaughtered animals that could be saved, and even the hides; these, though malodorous, giving out a fine heat when helped by the green faggots, which were in turn started ablaze by chips of the gradually broken-up wagons.
Then, too, the veldt was laid under contribution, men going out mounted, and furnished with sacks, which they generally brought back full of the scattered bones of game which had at one time swarmed in the neighbourhood, but had been ruthlessly slaughtered by the Boers.
So the days glided on, with not the slightest prospect, apparently, of our escape.
"Every one's getting precious impatient, Val," said Denham one day when we were idling up on the walls with his field-glass, after lying listlessly chatting about the old place and wondering what sort of people they were who built it, and whether they did originally come gold-hunting from Tyre and Sidon.

"Yes," he added, "we are impatient in the extreme." "It doesn't seem like it," I replied; "the men are contented enough." "Pooh! They're nobody.