urrounded; but the boy noted only that hands were raised to him for
water, and he and the drummer filled and emptied that swinging bucket
again and again.

It was during the height of the attack upon the fortifications that the
bearers carried one who seemed to be an officer inside the surgeon's
tent, and he was not carried out again, but laid up on a roughly-folded
waggon-cloth, suffering and patient, for the surgeons could do no more.
And from time to time an officer rushed up, to enter the tent, say a few
words, receive a reply, and rush out again to hurry away into the smoke
where the soldiers were still fighting on.

It happened, too, that with the bucket freshly filled from the
water-cart, Phil and his comrade had just reached the end of a line of
wounded men when one of the doctors came to the door of the tent, saw
them and shouted:

"Here, boys! Water!"

They trotted up together, entered the tent, and the next minute Phil was
down on one knee holding the cup to the wounded officer's lips, while he
drank with avidity, draining the cup, and sighing deeply as he noted how
young was the face of his attendant waiting to give him more.

"Brave boy," he said, gently, and he laid his hand upon Phil's arm; "but
this is no place for you."

At that moment the roar of battle outside seemed to roll towards the
place where the wounded man lay, increasing to a wild burst of cheers.

A flash of excitement darted from the officer's eyes, and he tried to
rise upon one arm.

"What's that?" he cried.

"They run! They run!" came in answer from many throats.

"Who run?" panted the wounded man.

"The French, sir," shouted an officer, hoarsely, as he dashed up to the
wounded one's side.

"_I thank God, and die contented_," history says the General sighed.

It was then that Phil, who had stood unnoticed by the bearer of the
victorious news, now kneeling by his great leader's side, pressed
forward to touch his arm, making him start round and cry in his
astonishment:

"Phil, my boy! You here!"

For he realised that it was his little son who had just raised the water
cup to the dying lips of the British hero--General Wolfe.

As for Phil Carleton's career, little need be said, for the war was over
with the defeat of the French, and in a few weeks he and Dr Martin were
in the same ship with the Major and his regiment, homeward bound.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Young Hero, by G Manville Fenn