[Preface.]
[Foreword.]
[Contents.]
[List of Illustrations.]
[Footnotes.]
[Books by G. Manville Fenn.]

Jack jerked out a note or two as they literally raced along

Blair of Balaclava

A HERO OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
BY
ESCOTT LYNN
Author of ‘When Lion Heart was King,’ ‘Under the Red Rose,’
‘With Robin Hood in Sherwood,’ &c.
WITH SIX COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS
by
W. H. C. Groome
LONDON: 38 Soho Square, W.
W & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED
EDINBURGH: 339 Hight Street
Edinburgh:
Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.
TO MY BROTHER FRED
AND THE OFFICERS
NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICERS AND MEN
OF THE ‘DEATH OR GLORY’ BOYS

PREFACE.

Inkermann has been called ‘The Soldiers’ Battle.’ With equal truth the whole Crimean campaign might be called ‘The Soldiers’ War.’ It was the vindication of the regimental officer and the rank and file; it showed to the world the ineptitude of the general staff as it existed at that day. Those entrusted with the conduct of the campaign were mostly old men long past the age when brilliant service in the field could be expected of them. Some had seen war-service in the Peninsula forty years before, the interim being spent doing office-work at the Horse Guards; many had never heard a shot fired in anger in their lives, their services being confined to Hyde Park or the Curragh Camp. Family or political influence procured them their appointments, while younger men who had already rendered splendid war-service in the East were either passed over, snubbed, or relegated to subordinate positions.

The miseries of Varna, the unparalleled sufferings of the troops before Sebastopol, and the awful blunder of Balaclava give testimony to the unwisdom of the selections.

During the long peace since Waterloo the army had grown unpopular. It had been neglected. Even the Duke of Wellington was averse to making any military display for fear that what army there was should be further reduced.

The force which left England for the East was one of the worst equipped and most badly organised that ever left our shores. On the contrary, the men of which it was composed were the finest. They were all long-service men, of grand physique and of an unrivalled spirit.

Before the Crimean war a red coat was looked on with disdain; after the war the wearer was hailed as a friend. He had proved that he was a worthy descendant of the heroes of the Peninsula, that he could perform as gallant deeds on the blood-stained slopes of the Alma or in the valley of Balaclava as had his forebears at Waterloo, that he could die of disease and starvation as uncomplainingly before Sebastopol as did his predecessors in Spain or Portugal.

In the following pages the author has endeavoured to pay a small tribute to the heroism of the rank and file, and to show how they won for themselves in the hearts of the British public the warm place they have ever since occupied.

The survivors of the Crimean war are, alas! growing yearly fewer; but the author desires to acknowledge with thankfulness much information he has gained from the veterans he has had the opportunity of knowing, amongst whom he wishes specially to mention Sergeant James Mustard, of the 17th Lancers, a survivor of the immortal charge, and happily still alive.

He also wishes to acknowledge his indebtedness to the fascinating pages of Kinglake’s Invasion of the Crimea and Russell’s British Expedition to the Crimea. Stirling’s Highland Brigade in the Crimea, and Steven’s Connaught Rangers have also been advantageously consulted.

ESCOTT LYNN.

London, 1911.

FOREWORD.
BY A SURVIVOR OF THE CHARGE OF
THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

It is many a long year now since the misty October morning when with my regiment, the 17th Lancers, I rode up that fatal valley where so many of my gallant comrades fell. Yet, as I read Mr Lynn’s description of the charge, I seemed to see and hear it all again: my comrades’ faces grim and set, the fine figure of Lord Cardigan leading us, poor Captain Nolan wildly trying to direct us out of the course we were following, the rattle of rifle-fire, the crash of the shells, the blazing of the guns all round us, the constant gaps in the ranks as man and horse went down, the ever-increasing speed till we were in amongst the Russian gunners and avenging those who had fallen.

I shivered again when I read of the awful storm of November and of the miseries of the road to Balaclava. My heart beat with pride at the tale of Inkermann, so well is the story told.

Many of the characters in the story I recognise—Jack Blair, Sergeant Barrymore, Sergeant Linham, Captain Norreys, Pearson, Brandon, and so on. I knew them under different names in the old regiment, but they were the same men.

If any boy is interested in what we did, what we suffered, and what part in the Crimean war my regiment played, let him read Blair of Balaclava. As a survivor of the Light Brigade I can truly say that had Mr Lynn soldiered with me and ridden by my side in the charge he could not have given a truer account of our doings in the Crimea in 1854 and 1855.

(Signed) James Mustard,
late 17th Lancers.

Sergeant James Mustard, the writer of the fore-going letter, was born in St James’s, Piccadilly, on January 13th, 1829.

Coming of a family of soldiers, a love for the profession of arms was born in him, and he joined the 3rd Light Dragoons, in London, on May 1st, 1850. Two years later he transferred, at Canterbury, to the 17th Lancers.

He went out to the East with his regiment in April 1854, was present at the affair of the Bulganak and the battle of the Alma. He rode in the front rank of the ‘Immortal Six Hundred,’ going down the valley immediately behind Lord Cardigan and his orderly trumpeter, Brittain of the 17th Lancers, who died of his wounds received in the charge. He reached the guns in safety, and, after using his lance with good effect against the Russian gunners and the cavalry formed behind them, started, with a little group of his own regiment and the 8th Hussars, on the return ride. He had a personal encounter with a Polish Lancer, whom he worsted; then continuing on his way, went to the assistance of Trumpeter Landfried of the 17th, who came safely out of the fray.

Sergeant Mustard had received a severe wound; but owing to the intense excitement became aware of the fact only by accident. To describe this event the writer quotes the sergeant’s own words: ‘We were coming back along the valley when a chum of the 13th Light Dragoons, named Hetridge, rode up to me. “Jim,” he said, “lend me your sword, for I’ve lost mine in the fight.” I still held my lance, though the shaft had been chipped by a bullet. I turned to draw my sword to hand it to Hetridge, when, to my amazement, I found I had neither sword, scabbard, nor belt. A canister-shot had caught me on the left hip, and cut away sword, belt, overalls, and pants, and laid bare a great red patch of bleeding flesh. Another inch would have smashed my hip and killed me.’

After lying all night on the ground, and helping to shift camp twice, Sergeant Mustard was next day sent to Scutari hospital, where he spent the next four months.

He served till the end of the war; and, returning with his regiment, was stationed in Ireland till the outbreak of the Indian Mutiny. Going to India, he served in Sir William Gordon’s squadron in the pursuit and capture of Tantia Topee. He was again wounded, and had his horse shot under him. Among his officers at that date were Lieut.-General Sir D. C. Drury Lowe, G.C.B., and Field-Marshal Sir Evelyn Wood, V.C., G.C.B., both then regimental officers in the 17th Lancers.

Sergeant Mustard, after being master-tailor of his regiment, retired from the service in 1865, being the possessor of the Crimean medal with three clasps, the Turkish medal, and the Indian Mutiny medal with one clasp.

The old veteran is still hale and hearty, though the only survivor of the rank and file of his regiment who rode in the charge. The kindly face and upright, soldierly figure, with the glittering medals on his breast, are well known in the suburb where he has lived, greatly respected, ever since he left the service.

His grandfather and two uncles fought at Waterloo in the 71st Light Infantry, and two of his brothers served for many years in the 22nd Regiment.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

BOOKS BY G. MANVILLE FENN.

BLAIR OF BALACLAVA.

CHAPTER I.
A SCRIMMAGE IN THE OFFICE.

‘YOU young brute, why don’t you mind what you’re doing, blundering about?’

‘I couldn’t help it, Jenkins; it was quite an accident. Your foot was stuck out, and I stumbled over it.’

‘It was nothing of the sort, you clumsy wretch; and take that to remind you that I’m Mr Jenkins.’

As he spoke, the lanky, pale-faced youth rose from the table, where he had been sitting nibbling the end of a quill, and soundly boxed the ears of a small, delicate-looking boy who, while carrying an inkpot across the office, had stumbled and upset some of the black fluid upon the lavender-coloured continuations of Mr Silvester Jenkins.

Not content with boxing the boy’s ears, Mr Jenkins seized him by the arm, which he twisted savagely.

‘Oh, oh—Jenkins! don’t—please don’t! You do hurt!’

‘And I will too, you young pig!’

The scene was taking place in the close and dismal office of Messrs Phogg & Cheetham, Solicitors, House Agents, &c. The tiny windows, partly covered with a wire blind and partly with big bills, allowed but little daylight to penetrate into the office, Messrs Phogg & Cheetham seeming to prefer, in more senses than one, working in the dark.

While the boy’s cries still rang out, a third person, who had been seated in the darkest corner of the office, perched up on a high stool, making entries in a book of vast dimensions, quietly descended from his seat, and in two strides stood before Mr Jenkins.

This third person was a well-set-up, handsome young fellow of about sixteen, with a firm chin, clear-cut features, and honest hazel eyes.

‘Leave Mallinson alone,’ he said quietly to Mr Jenkins; ‘you’re hurting him.’

‘And a good job too. He’s spoilt my trousers!’

‘It was an accident, and he’s sorry. Now let him go.’

‘I sha’n’t, and you mind your own business, John Blair, or you’ll get kicked out into the gutter.’

A slight flush crept into Blair’s cheeks, and Jenkins gave Mallinson’s arm another twist that made the poor boy almost shriek with pain. This was more than the quick temper of Jack Blair could stand.

The pent-up animosity of months broke out; and, never pausing to consider the probable consequences of his act, or to remember that the dandified being before him was his master’s nephew, he caught Mr Jenkins by the collar, shook him as a terrier would a rat, then hurled him across the office, where he fell with a crash in the fireplace.

Picking himself up, with a snarl of rage Jenkins seized a heavy ebony ruler, which he aimed with all his might at Blair. It struck that youth a sharp blow on the head, making him see stars for a moment, then glanced off and smashed one of the small, dirty panes of glass in the window.

Mr Jenkins’ triumph was, however, but short-lived. Roused to fury by the sting of the blow, Blair stepped up to the angry bully, his right and left shot out with lightning-like rapidity; and, receiving one on his mouth and one on his ample nose, Mr Jenkins measured his length upon the floor again, where he lay like a whipped cur, shouting ‘Murder!’ and ‘Police!’

In the midst of the hubbub, a door which led to the private office of Mr Phogg opened, and a tall, thin, black-bearded man appeared in the doorway. He gave a rapid look round the office, readjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles, took another look, then asked in cutting tones, ‘What is the meaning of this low, disgraceful conduct?’

Mr Jenkins picked himself up from the floor, holding his coloured silk handkerchief to his nose; little Mallinson shrank back into a corner; while Blair put his hands in his trouser-pockets with a resigned air, knowing there was trouble ahead for him, but determined to meet it boldly.

‘Now then,’ rapped out Mr Phogg, ‘must I ask again what is the meaning of this outrage perpetrated upon the premises of one of the oldest and most respectable businesses in Wycombe?’

‘It’s that low fellow Blair,’ said Mr Jenkins; ‘he made a savage attack upon me. He’s a bully and a coward. He tried to murder me.’

‘Now, John Blair,’ said Mr Phogg coldly, ‘what explanation have you got? Be careful what you say, for you may yet find yourself in the police-court, and any admission now, although spoken in hot blood, may be used against you.’

Jack Blair looked the contempt he could not express, for he cordially detested Mr Phogg.

‘I have no explanation,’ he said shortly; ‘ask your nephew for his version. I dare say it will be more to your taste than mine would be.’

Mr Phogg gave a sort of gasp—that is, he opened his mouth like a fish suddenly taken from the water, but he made no sound. Astonishment kept him silent. Had he heard aright? Had John Blair, the junior clerk, the youth who was dependent on his bounty, the ungrateful being whom he fed and lodged and paid—had he dared to be impudent to him, Anthony Phogg, senior partner of the firm of Phogg and Cheetham?

He paused for a moment; then a kind of painful smile crossed his features. ‘Very well, Silvester,’ he said, ‘very well; proceed with your narrative. Relate the facts;’ and he sat on the edge of the high stool Blair had just vacated, folding his arms and stretching out his long legs before him.

‘That young brute of a Mallinson’—— began Jenkins.

‘Nothing libellous, please,’ said Mr Phogg, holding up one lean, yellow hand; ‘plain facts only. I will draw my own conclusions.’

‘Well, sir, Mallinson then, crossing the office just now, deliberately upset an inkpot on my trousers, completely spoiling them.’

‘We can recover the value if we find motive,’ said Mr Phogg, making a pencil note on a scrap of paper lying on Blair’s desk. ‘Proceed.’

‘I was just showing Mallinson what he had done, and was telling him to be more careful another time, when he began cheeking me’——

‘Being insolent, say,’ corrected Mr Phogg.

‘He has been most insolent ever since he got that new job and gave us notice. I was checking him for being chee—insolent, when that bully Blair seized his ruler, rushed at me, and attacked me like a mad-man. I struggled to get the ruler from him, when he threw it at me and smashed the window, afterwards punching me about the face like a prize-fighter. Just look at me.’ And indeed Mr Jenkins did look in a pretty plight, with one eye nearly closed, his nose swollen, his mouth cut, and his hands smeared with blacklead and soot off the grate.

‘Ha,’ said Mr Phogg, ‘just what I expected! You are a low, common bully, Blair; a worthless, lazy brat, whom I kept only out of charity,’ he continued, his thin lips curling back from his teeth as he spoke. ‘Now you shall go—do you hear?—you shall go, be bundled, without a reference, neck and crop out into the gutter, where you can starve, or sell matches, or thieve. I dare say you’re a thief as well as’——

‘Stop!’ cried Blair, his eyes flashing fire. ‘Discharge me you can; but insult me you shall not. I am ready to go, for I’m sick to death of this place and its shady business, of you and your ape of a nephew. Give me my money and I’ll go at once.’

‘Oh Mr Phogg, please, please!’ cried poor little Mallinson, coming forward and holding out his hands appealingly; ‘it wasn’t Blair’s fault, on my honour it wasn’t. Jenkins—Mr Jenkins, I mean—boxed my ears and pinched me, and twisted my arm till I had to scream, I couldn’t help it. And I didn’t upset the ink on him on purpose. Blair only interfered because Mr Jenkins was hurting me, and he’s always at it, and Blair told him last time he wouldn’t have any more of it. Oh, please, Mr Phogg, don’t sack Blair.’

‘Silence, you little sneak!’ roared Mr Phogg; ‘leave the house, and depend upon it I’ll mention this occurrence in the character I shall give you.—Silvester, come into my room.’

Mr Phogg and his worthy nephew disappeared into the inner sanctum together; then Blair and Mallinson looked at one another, the latter almost on the verge of tears.

‘Oh Blair, what shall I do? It’s all my fault, and now you’ll have to go. I shall never, never forgive myself. What shall I do?’

Jack Blair placed an arm caressingly round the neck of the delicate-looking boy.

‘Don’t you worry, Cecil,’ he said; ‘it isn’t your fault. Ever since you got that nomination for Lidsdale’s Bank and gave Phogg notice to leave they’ve been down on you and me. There was bound to be a row, and I’m glad it’s over. I could not have stopped here much longer. I feel as though the very air of this office, with its pettifogging business, and dark, underhand methods, would choke me. I’m glad the burst-up has come. Now, cut away home, and I’ll give you a look up in the morning on the way to church.’

‘But—but—aren’t you afraid to be left here with those?’ and he pointed to the door of the private room.

Blair laughed grimly just as the door was opened and Mr Phogg shot out.

‘What! not gone, Mallinson?’ he cried. ‘Put on your hat at once. Here’s your money. Now go, and never darken my doors again!’ and, giving the boy a small envelope, he bundled him out of the door, which he banged behind him.

‘You’d better tidy up the place,’ he said to Blair; then again retired to his own room.

Blair did as he was bidden; then climbed up on to his high stool, and sat looking at the brilliant sunlight outside. His mind wandered back twelve months—to his old school and the pleasant cricket-meadow where probably the fellows were then playing, or perhaps his own old particular chums were having a pull up the river. The recollection made him sigh, for the last twelve months had held nothing but trouble and hard work for him. He looked round the dismal office, seeming ten times more dismal, he thought, now young Mallinson had gone, and his head fell forward on his hands, for the future looked dark indeed before him.

Less than fifteen months ago he had lost his father. At the end of the summer term he had gone home to find his mother and sisters removed from the great, rambling old house in Hampshire, where he had been born, to a humble lodging in London. There nothing but bad news met him. Mr Bailey, the old lawyer who had managed his father’s business for years, had stated that Mr Blair’s affairs were in a far from flourishing state. Unfortunate speculations had dissipated his fortune; his property was mortgaged, and most of his securities had to be disposed of to meet his liabilities. The house and best part of the furniture were sold, and the proceeds, being invested, were just sufficient to bring in a bare pittance, enough to keep a roof over the widow’s head. Jack Blair had to turn out into the world to earn his own living.

His first place had been in a wholesale drapery establishment, where he worked twelve hours a day. The hard work and the confinement, together with the bad and insufficient food, had in a few months made him but a ghost of his former self, and his mother had insisted upon his leaving. His second situation had been with a firm of merchants who in less than two months went bankrupt, and Jack Blair was once more thrown on his mother’s hands. Then the family lawyer had procured him his present situation with Messrs Phogg & Cheetham, a place where he worked from eight in the morning till eight or often nine at night, Saturdays included. He lived on the premises, and, besides his board, received the magnificent sum of four shillings a week for his services.

The old lawyer had told him that at any cost he must keep that situation, as he must not be a burden to his mother, who had as much as she could do to keep herself.

Jack had determined to succeed, and in spite of drudgery and continual snubs and insults, had been there six months; and now—well, after that afternoon’s work—he knew that his days there were numbered, and, worst of all, Mr Phogg had said he would not give him a reference. Jack knew his employer’s vindictive nature too well to doubt that he would carry out his threat. He felt he could not write and tell his mother, and what to do he knew not.

At eight o’clock that night he was turned out into the street, all his worldly possessions packed in a small portmanteau, a week’s wages (less one shilling and fourpence stopped for the broken window) added to his small stock of money, seven shillings and eightpence in all, forming the whole of his wealth, for Jack had sent his mother half his slender earnings ever since he had been in his situation. He went straight to the Mallinsons’ and arranged for a night’s lodging with them, he having been on very friendly terms with the family since he had been in Wycombe.

Early on the Sunday morning, Jack, portmanteau in hand, started on his long tramp from Wycombe to London, for he decided he dared not spend the two and tenpence for the railway fare. Cecil accompanied Jack some distance on the way, and when they parted he said, as he wrung Jack’s hand, ‘I can’t help feeling it’s all my fault your going.’

‘Don’t say a word about it, Cecil. I should do the same again to-morrow.’

‘Jenkins did look a guy,’ said Cecil, his eyes kindling at the recollection of his tormentor’s humiliation.

‘He looked just what he is, a sneaking bully,’ said Jack as he shook Cecil’s hand; ‘and now, good-bye and prosperity to you in your new situation.’

‘Good-bye, Jack. May you have all the luck you deserve,’ said Cecil.

There were tears in the latter’s eyes when he turned away, for he felt he had lost a good friend.

At a steady four miles an hour Jack kept on, mile after mile, the exercise taking more effect on him than it otherwise would have done, as since he had been at Wycombe he had enjoyed few opportunities of taking long walks. A brief halt for some bread and cheese in the middle of the day, then on again, every mile seeming to get longer and longer while yet a good part of the journey was before him.

Jack took off his coat, which he carried over his shoulder, changing his portmanteau from hand to hand. The day was baking hot. The white road, an inch thick in dust, reflected back the glowing sun till it made his eyes ache.

Jack hobbled painfully, his heels being rubbed and blistered, while his portmanteau seemed to grow heavier with every yard he walked. He had arrived at a spot where the hedge turned off at right angles, leading up to a five-barred gate opening on to some pasture-land. One side of this opening was in the shade, and, after looking at it for a moment, Jack turned up with a half-sigh of contentment and seated himself on the sloping, shady bank. He guessed he was somewhere near Hounslow, and he began to despair of reaching London that night. ‘Perhaps I could get a train from Hounslow,’ he thought; ‘but can I afford it?’

He took from his pocket the little purse his eldest sister had given him, and counted all his store—a half-crown, a florin, two shillings, a sixpence, and fivepence halfpenny in coppers—seven shillings and fivepence halfpenny in all. Jack sighed as he looked at the money in his hand and thought how short a way it would go when he was out of a situation. He was replacing the coins in his purse when a rush of feet sounded near him. Three men burst through the hedge, and while one seized him by the collar, another ragged, unshaven rascal, holding a short, heavy bludgeon in his hand, cried with a grin, ‘Evenin’, young gen’l’man, you’re the wery covey we’ve been a-waitin’ for. I’ll trouble yer to ‘and over them dibs, or’—and he flourished his stick—‘circumstances may be onpleasant.’

CHAPTER II.
ROBBERS ON THE HIGHWAY.

AT the first sound of the sudden rush of the three tramps, for such they appeared to be, Jack had closed his hand on the money he held; then, while the man with the bludgeon was talking, he sprang to his feet, wrenched himself free from the man who held his collar, pocketed his money, and faced the three ruffians. He squared up his fists, determined not to part with his possessions without a struggle.

The man who had first seized him by the collar, a villainous, squint-eyed, red-headed fellow, perceiving Jack’s determined manner, cried, ‘Now, none o’ that ‘ere; tip over the brass an’ that ticker ye’ve got at the end o’ that chain, or I’ll knock yer brains out.’

‘At ‘im, Toby,’ said he with the bludgeon in gruff tones. ‘We don’t want ter stand ‘ere jawin’ till some one comes along.’ Uttering these words, he ran in with upraised stick.

Jack seized his small portmanteau and hurled it at the ruffian’s legs, causing him not only to yell with pain at the sharp rap he got on his shins, but also to fall forward heavily on hands and knees. He uttered an oath, and cried out to his two companions to ‘finish the young whelp.’

Red-Head rushed in to do so; but Jack, who was a first-class boxer, having won the gloves on two occasions at his old school, gave the ruffian an upper cut on the point of the chin which dashed his teeth together with a snap that sounded like the meeting of the jaws of a rat-trap. The tramp badly bit his tongue, and he fell back, spitting out blood.

Jack then started to run down towards the highroad, shouting, ‘Help! help! Thieves!’ at the top of his voice.

He might have got safely away after all had it not been for tramp number three. This scoundrel had hovered in the rear of his companions till he saw Jack start off for the road, when, with a big stone which he had picked up, he set off in pursuit. He was lean and long-legged, and he gained at every stride on poor, tired Jack.

They hadn’t gone more than a dozen paces when he hurled the stone, a jagged flint, which he held in his hand. This caught Jack on the knee, and caused him to cry out in agony and come to a sudden stop, when the three men threw themselves upon their victim, pommelling and dragging at him as though they would tear every shred of clothes off his body.

However, Jack was not yet conquered, and he fought and tore, kicking, scratching, and biting like a mad thing, yelling loudly for help, and defying the efforts of the men to snatch from him his watch—his father’s last present to him—or to tear from his pocket his little stock of money.

Such a struggle, however, could not last long, and presently the man with the bludgeon wrenched away Jack’s watch and chain. He then stood by, waiting for an opportunity to give the lad a blow that should keep him quiet while the others rifled his pockets, when all of a sudden he cried out, ‘Ware, boys! there’s somebody comin’!’

The others paused in their work, and Jack gave another yell at the top of his lungs, when the trampling of a horse sounded in his ears and an angry voice cried out, ‘Now, you scum, what’s this?’ Then Red-Head, who had Jack by the throat, was lifted bodily up by his scruff and his ragged trousers, and hurled violently into the ditch beside the road.

Half-dazed, Jack glanced up to see in front of him a soldier facing the remaining roughs. These seemed half-inclined to show fight; but the soldier struck out with one gauntleted fist, and he who had thrown the stone at Jack joined his companion in the ditch. For a moment they lay there, then crawled out; upon which the soldier, running up to them, applied the toe of his boot to their coat-tails in a most determined manner, crying out at the same time, ‘Cut it, you rogues—cut it, or it will be the worse for you.’

And cut it they did, breaking through the bushes and disappearing quite as quickly as they had appeared.

Jack was so busy watching the punishment the two rogues were receiving that he did not notice him with the bludgeon sneaking away. When he turned, the fellow was just making off across the field behind them towards some old barns standing amongst the trees. Jack remembered his watch.

‘Oh sir, please!’ he cried to the soldier, ‘that fellow is going off with my watch, the last gift of my dead father!’

‘Follow me,’ said the soldier curtly, and he swung himself on to his horse, which during the struggle had stood quietly by on the very spot where his master had dismounted.

The soldier put his horse at the hedge, which he took at a leap, and Jack forced his way through the same gap that the tramp had. This fellow could be seen scurrying away across the field; but the soldier, touching his horse with his spurs, soon passed him. Then wheeling round his horse so as to get the man between himself and Jack, he cried out, ‘Stop, you rogue, and give up that watch, or I’ll leather your hide for you.’

The fellow turned round with a snarl; then raising his bludgeon he hurled it with all his might at the soldier’s horse, evidently in the hope of making it rear and throw its rider.

The stick caught the horse on the side of its head and did make it rear in a way that would have unseated a less skilful rider than the soldier; but he kept his seat with ease. Then, whipping his glittering sword from its scabbard, in three bounds he placed his horse beside the tramp.

‘You scum! you jail-bird!’ he cried in angry tones, ‘I’ve a good mind to cut you down or trample you under my horse’s hoofs.’

‘Please, sir—please, Mr Soldier, pity!’ cried the now thoroughly frightened wretch.

‘Give up the watch,’ said the soldier, still threatening the tramp with the point of his sword.

‘Yes, sir—yes, sir; there it is,’ and the man produced it from a capacious pocket, Jack running forward and taking it from him.

‘Now, cut it!’ cried the soldier; and as the man turned to obey he gave him half-a-dozen across the head and shoulders with the flat of his sword, laying on so lustily that the rogue howled again with pain.

‘Now, lad, let’s get back,’ said the soldier kindly to Jack; and they returned to the place where the scuffle had taken place and where Jack’s portmanteau still lay.

The other two men had completely disappeared, which the soldier said was a good thing, for it was a tedious job giving people into custody, and, besides, he had no time to go dancing attendance at police-courts.

‘A good horse-whipping in many cases would do more good than three months’ hard,’ he said, ‘and it’s less trouble.’

He then dismounted to examine his horse’s head and see whether it had been hurt at all by the tramp’s bludgeon, and as he did so Jack took the opportunity of closely examining him.

The soldier was a tall, fine, handsome-looking man, clad in white-striped blue overalls, and a dark-blue jacket with white cuffs and facings, on the arms of which several gold stripes betokened the wearer to be a non-commissioned officer. Worn on the stripes was a silver badge which attracted Jack’s attention. It was a grinning death’s-head standing above two crossed shin-bones.

The soldier wore a head-dress with a white square top, from the left side of which drooped a black plume, while on the plate in front the same grisly death’s-head and cross-bones seemed to grin at the beholder. Jingling spurs, a long sword trailing on the ground, and white leather gauntlets completed the soldier’s attire.

Satisfying himself that his horse, a fine-looking black, was not hurt, the soldier turned to Jack, and with a cheery smile said, ‘Well, my lad, it seems to me I arrived on the scene just in the nick of time.’

‘You did indeed, sir, and I take this opportunity of rendering you my heartfelt thanks.’

‘Not a word; ’twas nothing.’

‘Indeed it was everything. Had you not arrived I should have lost my all; perhaps my life too, though, God knows, that would not have troubled me much were it not for my poor mother.’

The soldier gave the boy a keen, penetrating glance. ‘You speak despondingly for one so young,’ he said. ‘You seem down on your luck; but cheer up, the longest lane must have a turning. How was it those rogues came to attack you?’

In rather broken sentences Jack began to tell his tale. But the late excitement he had passed through, coming on the top of great bodily fatigue, proved too much for him, and in a minute he found himself rambling in his speech; then the soldier seemed to be far, far away, and Jack fell back in a dead faint.

When he again opened his eyes he was lying on the grass under the shadow of some big trees. His head and neck felt deliciously cool, and putting up his hand he found they were running with water. The soldier, having divested himself of his gauntlets and gay plumed head-dress, was chafing Jack’s hands, while a pleasing feeling of drowsiness pervaded him.

‘Come, young fellow,’ said the soldier, it seemed to Jack rather anxiously, ‘you’ve had a long turn. I began to think you were a case for the doctor’s hands.’

‘Oh I’m all right,’ said Jack doggedly, and tried to struggle to his feet; but the soldier gently restrained him.

‘Wait a bit, sonny,’ he said; ‘just rest and pull yourself together. You’ve had a nasty shock. But if you’ll remain quietly here for ten minutes or so, there’s an inn near by where I can get you a mouthful of brandy.’

‘Don’t you trouble; I’m all right,’ said Jack; and again he struggled to his feet. But his knee pained him so badly, his feet were so sore, and he felt so weak, that with a moan he sank back again upon the grass.

The kindly soldier adjusted the little portmanteau under his head and again sprinkled his head and neck with cold water from the brook. Then saying, ‘Now, lie quietly here till I come back,’ strode off; Jack, in a semi-conscious state, watching the tall, soldierly figure disappear in the distance.

CHAPTER III.
THE ‘DEATH OR GLORY BOYS.’

IN a few minutes Jack was sipping some weak brandy-and-water and munching a sandwich, after which he felt another man.

‘And now, young fellow, where do you propose to steer for?’ asked the soldier.

‘I wanted to get to London,’ replied Jack. ‘But I am afraid that after my late shake up I sha’n’t be able to get as far to-night.’

‘I don’t think you will,’ replied the soldier, ‘unless,’ he added, ‘you are particularly anxious.’

‘The fact is, I’m down on my luck. I’m out of a situation, with very little chance of getting another.’ And then Jack told his story, down to the time when the tramps attacked him.

The soldier listened attentively. ‘That’s just a very lonely bit of road there,’ he said, ‘especially about this time on a Sunday. It was by the merest chance that I happened to pass and hear your cries. I was just returning from the house of one of my officers, to whom I had taken a letter.’

‘Are you an officer?’ asked Jack, looking at the gold lace on the soldier’s cuffs and collar.

The Lancer laughed. ‘Not I, lad,’ he said; ‘I’m simply Sergeant Bob Barrymore.’

‘May I ask what regiment yours is?’

The soldier smiled. ‘I thought our uniform and badge were pretty well known,’ he said. ‘My regiment is the 17th Lancers, the “Death or Glory Boys.” But I must be getting on, though I don’t like to leave you here. I’ll see you as far as Hounslow if you like, and I should advise you to put up there for the night and make an early start for London in the morning.’

This seemed to Jack good advice, though he thought with a sinking heart of his small stock of money, which would be thus further reduced. He got on to his feet, and was then astonished to find how weak and giddy he felt.

‘Just what I thought,’ the sergeant said, as he donned his headdress and gauntlets.

He placed his left arm round Jack’s waist, half-supporting him; took the portmanteau in his other hand, and, whistling to his horse, which at once followed him, he led the way out of the pleasant meadow on to the highroad. He then gave Jack a ‘leg up’ into the saddle, and instructed him to hold his slender portmanteau in front of him; then, with his right hand on the horse’s bridle, and carrying his sabre in his left, away they went.

Before they reached the barracks the sergeant dismounted Jack and they both passed in on foot. Jack gave an admiring glance at the smart young soldier, in all his gay trappings, a ten-foot lance surmounted by red and white bannerols in his hand, his spurred heels jingling on the stones as he strode up and down in front of the guard-room, outside which several soldiers, all also in full-dress, were standing or sitting.

Sergeant Barrymore’s quarters were reached. The sergeant’s wife, who was quite a superior woman, was soon in possession of the facts of the case. With a woman’s quick instinct she saw that the youth before her was tired and faint and hungry.

He was at once taken in; water, with soap and towels, placed for him; and then, when a welcome wash had refreshed him, a pot of coffee with some grilled ham-and-eggs and sweet white bread were waiting for him. Jack ate heartily and soon felt much better.

By that time the sergeant had divested himself of his gay trappings, and was in a loose undress jacket, slippers on his feet, and a well-used briar-pipe in his mouth. Jack turned to his host and hostess with the suspicion of a tear in his eye.

‘How can I thank you both for your more than kindness?’ he said. ‘You are indeed good Samaritans, and I can never hope to repay you for what you have done.’

‘Not a word,’ said the sergeant; ‘it’s every man’s duty to help a comrade in distress.’

‘But I’m not a comrade,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘I’m just a waster, a failure,’ he added with some bitterness.

‘Tut, tut, all men are comrades; but no more talking. A night’s sleep is what you want. Come with me. We can give you a shakedown, nothing more; but I dare say you’ll sleep well enough, and to-morrow you can get on your way again.’

The sergeant got a basin of hot water, in which Jack bathed his poor, galled feet. Some ointment was applied to them, a rag soaked in liniment tied round his injured knee, and Jack was ready for bed. A couple of regimental blankets on the sofa in Sergeant Barrymore’s sitting-room made a comfortable bed, and thus Jack passed his first night with those who, though he did not know it, for years to come, on land and sea, in comfortable home-quarters or on the blood-stained battlefields of the Crimea, were to be his loyal and gallant comrades.

His long and dreamless slumbers were at last broken by a ringing peal of martial music, and he awoke with a start to wonder where he was and what were the sounds he heard. The music, which he knew to be a trumpet-call, ceased; then he heard a variety of sounds, sharp commands given in that tone of voice peculiar to the cavalry service, the trampling of horses’ hoofs on the ground, and the jingling of bits and steel scabbards against stirrups.

Jack jumped up, hurried on his clothes, and went to the window. The sight that met his gaze drew an involuntary exclamation of delight from him. There, on the parade-ground just below him, he saw, drawn up in column of troops, the gallant ‘Death or Glory Boys.’

It was a magnificent morning, the bright sun shining on the burnished sword-scabbards and lance-points, making them flash and glisten like myriads of diamonds, while the light breeze was just enough to flutter the drooping black plumes and the gay red and white lance-pennons. The facings of the dark-blue uniforms looked snowy white, the shape of the men’s legs being shown to perfection by the white-striped overalls. The horses tossed their heads proudly and pawed the ground restively as though impatient to be off outside the gates, where they seemed to know a crowd had gathered to see the gallant regiment march off.

As Jack looked, the trumpeters sounded the ‘General Parade,’ and the officers took up their position with the regiment, the gold lace glittering on their uniforms and horse-furniture, conspicuous on which was the grinning skull and cross-bones, their great plumes of black swans’ feathers rustling in the breeze.

Then a handsome, distinguished-looking man, on whose breast glittered several medals and orders, rode up. A few curt commands followed, the lances came up to the ‘carry,’ and the officers drew their swords.

The band, which had been sitting mounted just on the right of the regiment, struck up a lively march and moved off; the regiment, in sections, followed, and the ‘Death or Glory Boys’ passed in review before Jack.

‘What a glorious sight! how noble they look!’ cried Jack aloud. ‘How I should love to ride in their ranks!’

‘Would you, indeed, sonny?’ said a voice behind him, and, turning, Jack beheld Sergeant Barrymore, a kindly smile on his sunburnt features, regarding him with a quizzical smile.

CHAPTER IV.
JACK BECOMES A LANCER.

‘AND so you’d like to be a soldier, would you?’ said the sergeant jokingly.

‘I think I should,’ replied Jack with a blush; ‘the men did look so grand. I’ve never seen a Lancer regiment before.’

‘It’s not all beer and skittles in the army,’ said the sergeant; ‘but a lad of mettle might do worse. You know what the song says,’ and the sergeant sang in a bass voice:

‘A soldier’s life’s a life of glory,
Told in song and gallant story,

and so on; but you need not believe all that. However, now let us get some breakfast;’ and after a wash, feeling quite himself again save for his sore feet and stiff knee, Jack was soon seated at table with the sergeant and his wife.

The regiment, Jack heard, was going to London to form a guard of honour and escort to the Queen on some state function.

‘And tired enough the chaps’ll be when they get in to-night,’ said the sergeant.

After breakfast he and Jack had a long talk, and it was quite clear that the sergeant was heart and soul in his profession, and thought there was no other to equal it.

Jack had a great dread of being a drag and an expense to his mother. He felt certain that Mr Phogg would give him a reference that would spoil his chance of getting employment—at least anything better than an errand boy’s or a porter’s place. A hundred times rather than that he would be a soldier; that was, at any rate, an honourable profession.

During the day he wandered about the barracks and had a good look at the guard, particularly admiring the trumpeter, a boy of about his own age, who from time to time, arrayed in his gay Lancer uniform, came forth and sounded different calls.

When the regiment returned at night he heard the men laughing and joking and relating much that had passed on the march up to London and during their progress through the crowded Metropolis; of the princes, lords, and other celebrated people they had seen; and, lastly, how well her Majesty and the Prince Consort looked.

As he again turned in on the sergeant’s sofa his mind was made up. He would be a soldier, and his regiment should be the gallant ‘Death or Glory Boys.’

In the morning he announced his intention to the sergeant while he was enjoying his morning smoke.

‘Well, Jack,’ he said, ‘you might do worse. If you’ve quite made up your mind, come with me.’

Together they crossed the barrack square, passing on their way the young trumpeter whom Jack had so much admired.

‘Where’s the major, Will?’ asked Barrymore.

‘In his quarters, I think, sergeant.’

‘Right.’

They went on to a room near the band-quarters, where they found a rather stout, shortish man, busy at a table copying out music.

‘Hallo, Bob, what’s the trouble?’ he asked, looking up.

‘A recruit, Ted.’

‘Ah, that’s good; I want a real smart lad in the trumpets, one who will take an interest in his work and take up second cornet in the band.’

‘I’ve got the very article, Ted; look at him,’ and the sergeant gave Jack a smack on the back.

Jack, thus brought into prominence, coloured up as he stood in the presence of the two non-commissioned officers, for Ted Joyce was the trumpet-major.

Trumpet-major Joyce looked keenly at Jack. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

‘Sixteen and a half, sir.’

‘Sir no one here but the officers,’ said the trumpet-major, who was a pleasant, rather fussy little man. ‘Know anything about music?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir—I mean’—— and Jack paused.

‘Call me major,’ said the trumpet-major.

‘Yes, major; I can play the piano pretty well.’

‘No pianos in the band,’ said the trumpet-major with a smile; ‘but if you can read well that’s something. You can’t beat time or rhythm into some of my trumpeters. Your lips look all right too; if you can use your tongue well I can make a good trumpeter of you.’

Jack had not the faintest notion of what the trumpet-major meant. The latter picked up a trumpet lying on a chair, and handing it to Jack said, ‘Now, put your lips together and try and sound that.’

Jack took the trumpet, drew a long breath, and blew with all his might, making no sound at all.

‘Squeeze your lips and make an action with your tongue as though you were trying to spit a bit of cotton-wool off it into the mouthpiece,’ said the trumpet-major.

Jack, with a smile, did as he was bidden, and at the third or fourth attempt succeeded in making a most unearthly sound.

‘Capital, capital!’ said the trumpet-major, rubbing his hands; ‘in three months we shall have you sounding on the square.’

‘I think he’ll do,’ said Barrymore gleefully.

‘First-class,’ agreed the trumpet-major.—‘What’s your full name?’

‘John Harrington Blair.’

‘Are you perfectly willing to serve the Queen for twelve years?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever been injured in such a way as to unfit you for service?’

‘No.’

‘Of course you’ve never served in the Royal Artillery, Engineers, Cavalry, or Infantry?’

‘No.’

‘And you do not belong to the Militia?’

‘No.’

‘Come along over to the Orderly Room,’ said the trumpet-major; ‘we shall find the regimental there.’

The three departed, and in the Orderly Room, beside the clerks, Jack saw the regimental sergeant-major, the man who, though not a commissioned officer, after the colonel and adjutant is the most important personage in a cavalry regiment. The regimental was one of the few men in the regiment who wore a decoration, besides which he was a fine, soldierly-looking fellow, with a pair of whiskers that were the envy of all the subalterns in the corps.

The trumpet-major promptly stated his business, and the regimental produced an attestation paper which one of the clerks filled up as Jack answered the questions. Then he was put under the standard.

‘Five feet six full; put him down five six and a quarter,’ called out the regimental, as he adjusted the standard above Jack’s head; ‘chest thirty-five,’ he went on, ‘complexion fair, hair brown, eyes hazel.’ Then to Jack, ‘Open your mouth,’ and concluded, ‘Teeth sound.’

‘You can get him before the doctor this morning, Joyce,’ said the regimental, ‘and then we’ll swear him in. You’ve got a fine lad there.’

‘Now, Jack,’ said Barrymore as they crossed the square, ‘you’ll soon be as much a soldier as I am. The trumpet-major will take charge of you for the present, and when you’ve been before the doctor come over to my quarters.’

Jack accompanied the trumpet-major to his room, and later on was taken before the doctor, where he was thoroughly examined and pronounced fit to serve her Majesty.

‘You’re now due to a day’s pay,’ said the trumpet-major. ‘By the way, how are you off for money—do you want any?’

‘No, I’ve got several shillings, thanks.’

‘Then stick to them. And just take a word of advice on the first day of your service. Be smart, scrupulously clean, and remember ours is a handsome uniform and wants keeping clean; be obedient—obedience is the first duty of a soldier; and don’t try and ape the manners of the men. Don’t forget you are still a boy; keep away from smoking; above all, keep away from drink, and don’t let the example of any of your comrades, especially of those who ought to know better, lead you into ways that are bound, sooner or later, to end badly for you.’

These words of the trumpet-major occurred to Jack’s mind on many a future day, and it was by acting up to them to the best of his ability that he owed much of his later success. He passed another night on the kindly sergeant’s sofa, then next morning was taken before the local magistrate to be sworn in. On his return to barracks Jack was handed over to the trumpet-major, who was just returning from practice.

‘Now, Blair,’ he said, ‘you’re a soldier. From this very minute your training begins. We’ll go over to the Orderly Room, see the regimental, and then you’d better make the acquaintance of your future comrades.’

In the Orderly Room a regimental number was given Jack, details of his pay, &c., explained, and then he was marched over to the regimental tailor’s, where he was measured for his uniform. These items being settled, he returned to the trumpet-major’s quarters, where he found the youth whom Sergeant Barrymore had called Will, now clad in the neat blue and white undress of the regiment, talking to the trumpet-major.

‘Ha, here you are,’ said Joyce. ‘Good.—Now, Hodson, I shall give him into your charge. There’s a spare bed in your room, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, major.’

‘Right; then Blair can have it. I’ll see Sergeant Linham later and get him entered in mess. Now take him over and make him known to the boys.’

Trumpeter Hodson, who had a merry, mischievous eye, looked at Jack as they went off; then said abruptly, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Blair.’

‘Dick?’

‘No, Jack.’

‘What made you join?’

Jack looked at his companion and laughed. ‘I might as well ask you that, might I not?’ he said.

‘You may, and the answer’s simple. My dad shoved me in. I had nothing to say in the matter.’

‘Do you like being a trumpeter?’

Will Hodson shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’d rather be a swell on five thousand pounds a year,’ he said; ‘but every one must do something. We’re soldiers. The governor put in twenty-five years, grandfather was killed at Waterloo, and I dare say some of my forebears were banging a drum or handling a pike at’—— and he paused for a word.

‘Blenheim or Ramillies?’ suggested Jack.

‘Ah, that’s it,’ said Will Hodson quite calmly; ‘the name slipped my memory for a moment. But, I say, you’re a cut above the usual ruck, you know; you won’t find it all honey here, I can tell you.’

‘Oh, I can rough it well enough,’ said Jack stoutly.

‘I hope you can. Well, here we are,’ and Hodson opened a door which stood at the head of a flight of stone steps they had just ascended.

‘Chums,’ he cried, ‘an illustrious arrival has come amongst us. Allow me to introduce to you John Blair, askewer, taterpeeler to his Highness the King of the Cannibal Islands.’

Jack paused on the threshold of the door and gazed with interest for the first time at a barrack-room.

CHAPTER V.
A BARRACK-ROOM SQUABBLE.

RANGED on one side of the room were eight iron bedsteads, the bedding being rolled up and strapped round to keep it neat during the daytime. Down the centre of the room, resting on iron trestles, were several long deal boards, scrubbed very white, forming a table; on each side of the table were forms.

The occupants of the room were variously engaged. Two young fellows at one end of the room were engaged in a bout with the boxing-gloves; another was sitting at the table writing a letter; a fourth was engaged burnishing a sword-scabbard, other parts of his kit lying round him; a fifth lad was pipeclaying a pair of gauntlets; while seated at a window, dressed in shirt and overalls only, was the eldest of the party, a short, stout young man, smoking a clay-pipe and talking to a comrade.

Over the beds hung each man’s sword and belts, and on a shelf above these were the lance-caps in their oilskin cases, and the clothes neatly folded, surmounting the sheepskin and the blue shabracks which covered the saddles when the regiment was in review order.

Jack was not long taking in these details; but before he had done so the various occupants of the room had desisted from their occupations and fixed their eyes upon him.

‘Why, it’s Sergeant Barrymore’s pup!’ said the young fellow with the pipe. ‘Come here, kid, and let’s have a look at you.’

This was said in a sneering manner, and Jack took an instinctive dislike to the speaker.

‘Run away from school, or has yer mammy been spanking you?’ he added.

‘Neither,’ said Jack simply. ‘I have become a soldier of my own free will.’

‘Ho my!’ exclaimed he with the pipe. ‘Well, just behave yourself, or you’ll feel the weight of my boot.’

‘That’s Napper,’ said Hodson to Jack. ‘Don’t take any notice of him.’

He took Jack to a bed which he said would be his, and proceeded to show him how to put down and make it with the straw-filled tick and the coarse sheets and blankets. Jack helped to roll and strap it up again just as a trumpet sounded outside.

‘There goes mess,’ cried Bandsman Napper. ‘Now, Brown, shin off and get the grub;’ and a young trumpeter, picking up a big tin, left the room.

The table required little laying, the boys producing from the shelves over their beds chunks of bread, in which knives and forks were stuck, plates and basins like pudding-basins were laid on the table, and the bandsman who had been talking to Napper, with a jaunty ‘Ta-ta, boys!’ went off to his own room.

The trumpeter who had departed for the dinners presently returned, and in the mess-tin was a great piece of meat and a number of baked potatoes swimming in the fat beneath; and a second youngster followed with a great tin of cabbage. All these were placed on the table.

The plates were passed up, and Napper, who was in charge of the room, commenced to carve the meat. Carving, with him, simply consisted of first trimming off the brown, well-done portions and some crisp fat for himself, then cutting the remainder into seven ugly chunks, one of which he dumped on each plate. Hodson added some potatoes, and each helped himself to cabbage; then without any more ado all fell to.

Hodson, looking up, saw Jack had nothing on the plate in front of him. ‘I say, Napper,’ he said, ‘Blair’s got no grub.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’ answered Napper with his mouth full.

‘He’s in the mess, you know.’

‘He ain’t had any rations drawn for him, anyhow. If he wants any grub let him get it in the sergeants’ mess with his pals,’ he concluded spitefully, evidently alluding to Jack’s friendliness with Barrymore.

‘Here, I say, that’s all rot,’ said Hodson. ‘He’s hungry.’

‘Then let him gnaw that,’ grinned Napper, pointing to the bone which remained in the tin.

‘Never mind, chummy; share with me,’ said Hodson, proceeding to put some of his dinner on Jack’s plate.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Jack. ‘I’m not very hungry, and in any case Mr Napper says I can have the bone. I’ll take him at his word, for I’m particularly fond of picking a bone.’

The ‘Mr’ tickled the fancy of the youngsters, one or two of whom grinned gleefully, perceiving which, Napper scowled round upon them.

‘Look here, you young tramp,’ he said savagely to Jack, ‘don’t you give me any of your cheek or I’ll cuff your head for you. And you can take off those elegant manners too. If your “superior education” fits you for the orficers’ mess you’d better get there; they want waiters anyway. But while you’re here you’ll knock under, d’ye hear?’

‘Perfectly, you speak loudly enough.’

Another titter ran round, which made Napper redder than ever.

Hodson had put the bone on Jack’s plate, and was adding some potatoes when Napper cried out, ‘Drop those; we don’t mind giving dogs bones, but we don’t give ’em spuds.’

At this the laugh turned against Jack; but at boarding-school he had been too used to that to take any notice. So with some cabbage, which Hodson, in defiance of his superior, gave him, and with a lump of bread which another trumpeter offered him, he made a very good dinner, for there was plenty of meat on the bone.

Napper was in a bad humour, and after he had finished his dinner, lighting up his pipe, he said to Jack, ‘You’ll just understand that I’m in charge here and you’ll do as you’re told.’

‘Certainly.’

‘Don’t answer me.’

Jack made no reply, for he saw at once that Napper was a bully, misusing the little authority he had, and that the majority of the trumpeters found it paid them to toady a little to one much older and stronger than themselves. On his part Jack determined to feel his feet before he tackled Bandsman Napper, for he felt assured before long they would come to grips.

Seeing Jack stood without speaking, Napper said, ‘You’ll help Brown to wash up and tidy the room. You’ve got to work here, and the sooner you begin the better.’

Jack helped to wash up the plates, knives, and forks, the hot water being got from the cook-house. Then the table was washed down and the floor swept.

By that time all the trumpeters, except one who was cleaning up his kit for guard the next day, had gone off to practice. Jack looked across at him, and saw he was busy burnishing a pair of spurs. This trumpeter, whose name was Parkes, was a stolid-looking lad, who took no notice of Jack till the latter went up to him and in a cheery voice said, ‘I say, can I help you?’

Parkes looked up from his work. ‘No good trying to borrow off me, chummy. I’m broke,’ he said.

‘I don’t want to borrow anything. Sooner or later I’ve got to learn to do what you’re doing. I hate doing nothing. Show me how, and I’ll help you.’