the "Flea Trap," or "Monkey House," or "Cockytoo Lodge," or the "Mongrel's Parlor," all of which were adjacent, or possibly it was the tangible evidence of a midnight raid by the "Laughing Jackasses" at the other end of the camp. Our young folks haunted the camp, and came to know it in all-well, say in most of-its phases. They watched it work and they watched it play-at cards and draughts and dominoes, at football, cricket and quoits. They criticised its cooking arrangements and its various methods of devouring its food, which, I am bound to say, tended rather towards business-like despatch than towards elegance of manners. They watched it receive its letters and retire into corners to read them, and lie flat on its stomach to write its replies with much arduous toil of hand and tongue. They heard it sing and laugh and grumble. They saw it receive its modest pay, and then creep, dingy and grubby, into its triangular darknesses, whence, after a brief period of retirement, it emerged radiant in butterfly scarlet, with shining face, and plastered hair ornamented with precariously clinging cap, and then, with diminutive cane twirling jauntily, they saw it strut proudly away to the town on conquest bent. Both my boys were going to be soldiers the moment they were big enough. Both my girls were going to marry soldiers as soon as they grew up. I felt it my duty to beg them to become, and to choose, officers, and my mind was relieved when they stated that such of course was their intention. But one morning there sprang up on a vacant plot among the sand hummocks between the camp and the town, a sudden mushroom growth of white bell tents arranged in symmetrical lines around the four sides of a long parallelogram, with large square mess tents at each end, and cooking ovens dug out of the sandhills beyond the with shrill squeak of many fifes and much rattle of kettledrums, there marched in from the station a regiment of boy soldiers, the eldest I should say not more than fifteen, but every man of them bearing himself with all the conscious pride of a bemedalled veteran of fifty. Thenceforth the "Rat Trap" and the "Mongrel's Parlor" and the home of the "Laughing Jackasses" knew us no more. All our attention was centred on the youthful warriors of the new camp, and we came to know them in the lump as well as we had known their elders farther along the shore. soon But even warriors, in the lump, are not as interesting as individuals; and as we became familiar with the machinery of the camp, our chief enjoyment began to revolve round one particular little unit thereof. We had each of us separately been struck by him as they marched in that first day, and this alone sufficed to give him a place apart from his fellows in all our minds. He was the brightest-faced youngster in the regiment-brown hair, pert nose, quick blue eyes which roved around in vast enjoyment of the sensation he was helping to create, perfect health and rollicking humor in every curve of his impudent little face. He was one of the kettledrums, and the way his sticks flashed and twirled was a sight and a source of amazement to all beholders. His very soul seemed to run down into the points of son." those twinkling sticks, and his boyish I don't b'lieve there ain't no such perdelight in the noise he could extract from his drum was barely veiled beneath the gravity he considered becoming to a man of his position. We were constantly meeting him strolling out with the other men of his corps, and he always seemed to be doing the talking and gesticulating for the lot. A chance conversation which we overheard as we came along the soft sand to the camp one afternoon enlightened us as to his name and some of his characteristics. Four of them were lying in a sunny nook, and they were quite too much interested in themselves to pay any attention to us. We were interested too, and we trod soft and went slow for the purpose of hearing the end of their discussion, but they took no apparent notice of us. "When my Uncle Dan was at Watterloo-" were the first words that reached us from our little kettledrum. "Garn, Danny Rendle! Give yer Uncle Dan a rest. I don't b'lieve y' ain't got no Uncle Dan," growled a dark-haired boy. ex "You-don't- b'lieve-I-ain't-gotno Uncle - Dan,- Jim Foley?" claimed our youngster, in a tone of the most concentrated amazement. "Nar," said the other. "If yer have, why don't he never come t' see yer? Why don't he never send yer nuff'n? I never seen him, nor ever heard tell of anybody that has, an' yer never gits any letters from 'm, not so much as a ha'p'ny post card." "He can't write, 'cos he lost his arm at Watterloo." "Yah! He c'd write wiv his other arm, or wiv his toes, same as yon man at the show we was at, or he c'd get summun else t' write; or he c'd come an' see yer." "Lost both his legs at Watterloo." "Huh! an' his head, an' his tail. Not much left of him to brag about. But "All right, Jim Foley! You see that there sandhill?" Wot's that got t' do wiv "I see it. yer Uncle Dan? buried there?" "You git out to-night, Jim Foley, and come down there, an' I'll interdooce yer to my Uncle Dan." "Will? Right! I'm on. I'd like to meet all that's left of the old gen❜leman." And then we had to pass out of hearing, having learned that our youngster's name was Dan Rendle, and that he had, or said he had, a veteran uncle upon whose existence his companions cast doubts. Without saying anything to my young people, I promised myself the pleasure of witnessing the introduction of Jim Foley to little Dan's aged relative. And I was there, ambushed flat in the wire-grass of a neighboring hillock for an hour before the meeting, and counted the time well spent. Dan was first on the field with two supporters. Presently Jim Foley strolled up with three more. "Ah, you there, Danny Rendle? Now, where's yer Uncle Dan wot lost his arms and his legs at Watterloo, an' his head, an' his tail, an' every blim bit of him? I-don't-b'lieve-you-got no-Uncle-Dan." "Come on!" said Dan, and peeled off his tunic, and rolled up the sleeves of his little colored shirt, and tied his red cotton handkerchief tight round his waist, "an' I'll interdooce yer to him." I am not going to describe the fight. I am old-fashioned-or maybe it is new-fashioned- enough to believe that a fight is less demoralizing to the principals, except, indeed, in such trifling matters as blood and cuticle, than to the onlookers. So, briefly, the conflict waxed and Jim waned for a 'good ten minutes. was half a head taller, but was not so close-knit and active as Danny, and Danny was fired with the defence of the family honor. In the event Jim measured his length on the earth, and before he could rise, Danny had him by the scruff of the neck and was ramming his face into the sand, while he pantingly exhorted him to a better frame of mind in the matter of Uncle Dan. "Now,-(ram)-Jim Foley,—(ram)—d' you b'lieve (ram)-in my Uncle Dan?" "NO!" roared Jim, spitting out a mouthful of sand as his head rose. "You ain't-got-no-Uncle-Dan." "Then, dan you! I'll choke you!" and down went Jim's face into the sand once more, and was held there so long that I began to fear the threat would be carried out. The others began to fear so too. "Let him be, Dan Rendle," said one. "We all know you got an Uncle Dan, an' what's it matter 'bout him?" "Ho! do-do you?" panted Dan. "No-he ain't," came in a muffled whisper from the sand. "Well, I guess you've had 'nough of him for one day, Jim Foley," said the victor, giving the fallen foe a final shake. "Don't want never-t' hear his name again," said Jim, sitting up slowly, and scooping the sand out of his mouth with his finger. "All right," said Dan, letting down his sleeves, and getting into his tunic, "when you want to hear from him again, you let me know, an' I'll 'tend to it. He told me to lick yer, an' I done it," and he marched away with his head in the air. Next day, as we drew near the camp, the shouts and laughter from the beach just beyond told us that the youthful warriors were at their ablutions, so we sat down to watch their antics. They were having a right merry time, gambolling in the surf like a school of stranded porpoises, rolling, yelling, chasing one another with bunches of seaweed, while the more courageous ventured out up to their chins and essayed the voyage home. A short-cut shout that was different from the other shouts-as different as death is from life-and all the other shouts died away, and all our eyes turned to where a pair of white arms were thrashing wildly at the water which closed over them-another bubbling cry as they came in sight again. I had kicked off my shoes and shed my jacket for a desperate venture, with little hope of success, for he was a long way out. The sergeant in charge was wading out up to his knees, cursing volubly-I learned afterwards that he couldn't swim a stroke. All the other youngsters had scuttled ashore and formed a shivering fringe to the lip of the tide. Suddenly shouts broke out from the squirming line. "Go it, Danny! You got him. Keep up, old man. 'Ray! he's got him. Danny's got him. Good ole Dan! Right and tight, here they come," and presently they were in shallow water, and stood for breath, Dan with his arm round the other, supporting him, for he was spent; and then they waded ashore amid the shouts of the boys, and I saw that the other was Jim Foley, the unbeliever. And as they came slowly through the shallows I heard "Didn't want you to drown 'fore you'd seen my Uncle Dan, Jim Foley." "Y'ain't got no-Uncle Dan, Danny Rendle," dribbled sturdily from bluelipped Jim. ""Twere him sent me after you," said Dan. "Garn!" said Jim, and then the sergeant took them in custody. Now it seemed to me that this conduct of little Dan's deserved more rec ognition than it was like to get, and, thinking the matter over, I decided on a course which would, I had reason to believe, give Dan more satisfaction than anything else was likely to do. I let two days elapse, and then, seeing Dan sitting outside his tent with a circle of admirers round him, and the recovered Jim playing devil's chorus at the door of his own tent, I walked in past the sentries with my youngsters, and requested audience of the Commander-in-Chief. That high official was absent on pleasure, but I was introduced to a sergeant, who happened to be the one who got his trousers wet on the beach the other day. "Have you got a boy here named Rendle, sergeant-Dan Rendle?" I asked. "We have, sir. Do you know him?" "Well, I know something about him. His Uncle Dan-" "Ay, ay, sir; that's him. There he is, 'mong all them byes. He's the cheekylooking young limb in the middle that's doing all the talking; but he's a good bye, and a plucky one. I'll call him." "No, if you don't mind, we'd like to go to him.” "Right, sir," and he led us across the vacant space to where Danny was holding court. "Rendle, here's a gentleman come to see you from your Uncle Dan," said the sergeant, and Danny sprang up to the salute with a face like a red rose dusted with gold, for it gleamed all over and tipped with dew, for his eyes sparkled like diamonds-wet diamonds. "Well, Dan, my boy," I said, "how are you, and how are you getting on? Heard from Uncle Dan lately?" "No, sir, I ain't," said Dan, with something of a dazed look in his eyes. "Ah, he's not much of a writer, is he, with his one arm?" "No, sir, he ain't." And after a pause. "Is he is he all right, sir?" "All right last time I heard from him, Dan. I suppose we may sit down?" "Surely, sir," said the sergeant, who was hovering around. "Now, you byes, skedaddle. Like your imperence, hangin' round with your mouths wide open when Rendle has visitors from his Uncle Dan." "Well, and have they made you sergeant yet, Dan, or corporal, or what?" "No, sir, I ain't noth'n but just full private. But I've got two good-conduct stripes, an'-an' they say I'm t' have a medal." "Oh, and what's the medal for? Shooting?" "No, sir, fur-fur swimmin'," said Dan modestly. "For savin' a bye's life at sea at risk of his own," said the sergeant, who was still within earshot. "Oh! how was that? That's a great thing to have done, my boy, and a thing to be proud of. It's not everybody gets the chance, or has the pluck to take advantage of it." It was the sergeant, however, who told us the story and pointed out Jim Foley, still sitting in the door of his tent and straining eyes and ears our way, as the "fullish bye what didn't know enough to keep inside his depth, and spiled me a pair o' new trousers, he did too, forbye, wi' his fullishness." We stopped chatting with Dan for close on half an hour. He told us all that he knew, and a great deal that he thought, about a sham fight with the soldiers in the other camp that was to come off in the marshes that night, and strongly advised us to be present. It was to be a slap-up, real banging affair, and wouldn't they just make a noise! He showed us inside his tent, which he shared with five others, and all his belongings, and led us past Jim Foley, with his nose up and his head in the air, to the mess tent, and finally, after we had taken leave of the sergeant, and begged his acceptance of half-a-crown, he conducted us proudly past the sentries and said good-bye, and stood looking after us, with his right hand firmly clasped on a fiveshilling piece, and an expression of face that was strangely compounded of gratitude and mystification. When we strolled up to camp next day Dan was on sentry duty at the front entrance. There were a score of the town boys regarding him enviously, and he would not permit himself so much as the flicker of an eyelid from the straight path of duty. His eyes shone on us like blue diamonds, and I got a fleeting impression of a slight tremor of the under part of the left eye-cup; but the little warrior sternly nipped the flower of friendship in the bud, and remained as immobile as if he had swallowed the barrel of his musket and had been cast in gunmetal. The next day we begged leave for him for the afternoon, and carried him off in a carriage and pair for a drive round the countryside, and home to our lodgings to tea, and we all delighted in him greatly. My youngest boy desired forthwith to be put into a soldier's orphanage, that he might begin to emulate the deeds of Danny the Great, and his mother had to be at much pains to explain to him that on several counts he was not at present eligible. Dan chattered away most entertainingly of his soldiering experiences, asserted that they had licked the big fellows all to fits in the marshes the other night, and dilated at considerable length on the great time they had had at the canteen, when he had had his Uncle Dan's health drunk with full honors in forty bottles of ginger beer. "But I ain't spent all the money yet," he said with a deprecatory glance at me. But when I hinted that money was meant to be spent, and was apt to burn holes in boys' pockets if kept too long-a proposition which made my own youngsters prick up their earsand endeavored to draw him out on the use to which the balance was to be put, he rapidly changed the subject, and I forbore to worry him. I was very curious to know if my own surmises as to Dan's Uncle Dan were anywhere near the mark, and when my wife was putting the younger children to bed I told the others to run down to the beach while Dan and I had a talk. "Now, Danny, my man, tell me about your Uncle Dan," I began when we were alone. "Where does he live?" He looked at me very straight for the space of a minute, as though debating in his own mind whether to unload himself or not, and then said briefly: "I ain't got no Uncle Dan." It was so exactly what I expected that, after all that had passed, I could not refrain from a shout of laughter, at his which he knitted brows and blinked quickly, and I saw that I had hurt him. I stretched out my hand. "You must excuse me, old man," I said, "but that was exactly what I imagined," at which a look of relief came over his face. "And yet you fought Jim Foley because he cast doubts on Uncle Dan, and you went in after Jim because your Uncle Dan sent you?" "Gosh!" said Danny, and looked upon me as a wizard. "Tell me all about it, Danny. Perhaps I can help.” "Well, sir, it were like this," he said stoutly; "all the other chaps had sisters and cousins and aunts and things, and I never had nobody, and I felt kind of out, and I just made up Uncle Dan to be upsides with 'em. An' I made him just as I'd ha' liked to ha' had him if I'd had him really. Bin at Watterloo, |