A young Dutchman had recently described Vryburg to me as a town which looked as if it had gone for a walk and got lost, and as we drove up to it I remembered his words, and saw that his simile was rather an apt one.

There seemed no reason, beyond its site in a sheltered basin, why Vryburg should have been chosen for the capital of British Bechuanaland.

The railway was at least a mile away on the east, and so hidden was the town that, till you were close on it, you could barely see the roofs of the houses.

Then suddenly the carriage drove into the main street, which boasted of some quite respectable shops.

The first thing that attracted our notice was the Court House, almost hidden in trees, through which glimmered the folds of the gaudy Dutch standard.
Before the court were armed Boers, apparently sentries, whilst others were passing in and out or lounging outside.