forgot to bring the pails up. Two of
his precious cows he left unmilked till their distressful lowing caused
the farmer's wife to go down and see. There he was standing against a
gate moving his brown neck from side to side like an animal in pain,
oblivious seemingly of everything. She spoke to him:

"What's matter, Tom?" All he could answer was:

"I'se goin', I'se goin'." She milked the cows herself.

For the next three days he could settle to nothing, leaving his jobs
half done, speaking to no one save to say:

"I'se goin'; I'se got to go." Even the beasts looked at him surprised.

On the Saturday the farmer having consulted with his wife, said quietly:

"Well, Tom, ef yu want to go, yu shall. I'll drive 'ee down Monday. Us
won't du nothin' to keep yu back."

The little cowman nodded. But he was restless as ever all through that
Sunday, eating nothing.

On Monday morning arrayed in his best clothes he got into the dog-cart.
There, without good-bye to anyone, not even to his beasts, he sat
staring straight before him, square, and jolting up and down beside the
farmer, who turned on him now and then a dubious almost anxious eye.

So they drove the eleven miles to the recruiting station. He got down,
entered, the farmer with him.

"Well, my lad," they asked him, "what d'you want to join?"

"Royal Marines."

It was a shock, coming from the short, square figure of such an obvious
landsman. The farmer took him by the arm.

"Why, yu'm a Devon man, Tom, better take county regiment. An't they gude
enough for yu?"

Shaking his head he answered: "Royal Marines."

Was it the glamour of the words or the Royal Marine he had once seen,
that moved him to wish to join that outlandish corps? Who shall say?
There was the wish, immovable; they took him to the recruiting station
for the Royal Marines.

Stretching up his short, square body, and blowing out his cheeks to
increase his height, he was put before the reading board. His eyes were
splendid; little that passed in hedgerows or the heaven, in woods or on
the hillsides, could escape them. They asked him to read the print.

Staring, he answered: "L."

"No, my lad, you're guessing."

"L."

The farmer plucked at the recruiting officer's sleeve, his face was
twitching, and he whispered hoarsely:

"'E don' know 'is alphabet."

The officer turned and contemplated that short square figure with the
browned face so reminiscent of a withered baby, and the little bl