Deal's Central Hotel, East London.
February 20th, 1900.
[DEAR MOTHER:]
We are stopping at every port now, as though the
Scot were a ferry boat. We came over the side to get here in
baskets with a neat door in the side and were bumped to the
deck of the tender in all untenderness. This is more like
Africa than any place I have seen. The cactus and palms
abound and the Kaffirs wear brass anklets and bracelets. A
man at lunch at this hotel asked me if I was R. H. D. and said
he was an American who had got a commission in Brabants
horse — He gave me the grandest sort of a segar and apparently
on his representation the hotel brought me two books to sign,
marked "Autographs of Celebrities of the Boer War." It seemed
in my case at least to be premature and hopeful.
Good luck and God bless you. This will be the last
letter you will get for ten days or two weeks, as I am now
going directly away from steamers. This one reaches you by a
spy gentleman who is to give it to Rene Bull of The Graphic
and who will post it in Cape
Town — He and all the other correspondents are abandoning
Buller for Roberts. Let 'em all go. The fewer the better, I
say. My luck will keep I hope.
DICK.
