as his demeanor that he dignified his occupation. For
years after he disappeared, the peddling of white-fish by horse and
cart was regarded in that district as peculiarly respectacle. It was a
glorious trade when old John Locke held the steelyards and served out
the glittering fish with an air of distributing ammunition for a long
day's combat.

I believe I noticed, on the first day I saw him, how he tapped his
left breast with a proud gesture when he had done with a lot of
customers and was about to march again at the head of his horse. That
restored him from trade to his soldiership--he had saluted his
Waterloo medal! There beneath his threadbare old blue coat it lay,
always felt by the heart of the hero.

"Why doesn't he wear it outside?" I once asked.

"He used to," said my father, "till Hiram Beaman, the druggist, asked
him what he'd 'take for the bit of pewter.'"

"What did old John say, sir?"

"'Take for the bit of pewter!' said he, looking hard at Beaman with
scorn. 'I've took better men's lives nor ever yours was for to get it,
and I'd sell my own for it as quick as ever I offered it before.'

"'More fool you,' said Beaman.

"'You're nowt,' said old John, very calm and cold, 'you're nowt but
walking dirt.' From that day forth he would never sell Beaman a fish;
he wouldn't touch his money."

It must have been late in 1854 or early in 1855 that I first saw the
famous medal. Going home from school on a bright winter afternoon, I
met old John walking very erect, without his usual fish-supply. A dull
round white spot was clasped on the left breast of his coat.

"Mr. Locke," said the small boy, staring with admiration, "is that
your glorious Waterloo medal?"

"You're a good little lad!" He stooped to let me see the noble pewter.
"War's declared against Rooshia, and now it's right to show it. The
old regiment's sailed, and my only son is with the colors."

Then he took me by the hand and led me into the village store, where
the lawyer read aloud the news from the paper that the veteran gave
him. In those days there was no railway within fifty miles of us. It
had chanced that some fisherman brought old John a later paper than
any previously received in the village.

"Ay, but the Duke is gone," said he, shaking his white head, "and it's
curious to be fighting on the same side with another Boney."

All that winter and the next, all the long summer between, old John
displayed his medal. When the report of