Trumpeter, grave with the weight of responsibilities and
accoutrements beyond his years, and stained, so that his own mother
would not have known him, with the sweat and dust of battle, did as he
was bid; and then pushing his trumpet pettishly aside, adjusted his
weary legs for the hundredth time to the horse which was a world too big
for him, and muttering, "'Tain't a pretty tune," tried to see something
of this, his first engagement, before it came to an end.

Being literally in the thick of it, he could seen less or known less of
what happened in that particular skirmish if he had been at home in
England. For many good reasons; including dust and smoke, and that what
attention he dared distract from his commanding officer was pretty well
absorbed by keeping his hard-mouthed troop-horse in hand, under pain of
execration by his neighbors in the melde. By-and-by, when the newspapers
came out, if he could get a look at one before it was thumbed to bits,
he would learn that the enemy had appeared from ambush in overwhelming
numbers, and that orders had been given to fall back, which was done
slowly and in good order, the men fighting as they retired.

[Illustration]

Born and bred on the Goose Green, the youngest of Mr. Johnson's
gardener's numerous off-spring, the boy had given his family "no peace"
till they let him "go for a soldier" with Master Tony and Master
Jackanapes. They consented at last, with more tears than they shed when
an elder son was sent to jail for poaching, and the boy was perfectly
happy in his life, and full of _esprit de corps_. It was this which
had been wounded by having to sound retreat for "the young gentlemen's
regiment," the first time he served with it before the enemy, and he was
also harassed by having completely lost sight of Master Tony. There had
been some hard fighting before the backward movement began, and he had
caught sight of him once, but not since. On the other hand, all the
pulses of his village pride had been stirred by one or two visions of
Master Jackanapes whirling about on his wonderful horse. He had been
easy to distinguish, since an eccentric blow had bared his head without
hurting it, for his close golden mop of hair gleamed in the hot sunshine
as brightly as the steel of the sword flashing round it.

Of the missiles that fell pretty thickly, the Boy Trumpeter did not take
much notice. First, one can't attend to everything, and his hands were
full. Secondly, one gets