Agincourt quarrel), his stiff collar, with its ruff
of blue and white lace, his neat belt and shining
brass, and his soldierly trousers of black, corded
down the seams with, red. Bucks never seemed
to have enough of it.

"This is the stuff to make a soldier," said he,
suddenly, with intense enthusiasm, such as men
who remember the old French wars and
volunteering days can only feel now it is the fashion
to be philosophic and cosmopolitan. "Wert in
the Crimear, lad, eh? Did'st box the Rooshians,
lad?"

"No," said Tom, stoutly and honestly, "but
that comrade of mine, who you saw shake hands
with me, was, and was wounded, too. The band,
you know, carry off the wounded."

"Look at this lad now!" said Bucks, addressing
every one, and proudly, as if he were his
father, with stentorian voice, hitting his
corduroyed thigh violently Avith his clenched fist,
"I saw, last week as ever was, a regiment pass
through Tring with a drummer-boy no bigger
than him, and they stopped at the public house
the Malt Shovel, in Tring, where I was hewing.
Lor' bless you! what a stir the farmers made
with t' lad. I do believe if he could have eaten
gold they'd have given it the little lad." (All
this our honest friend spoke as if he was chewing
every word, forte e molto staccato.) "Bread
and cheese, good Lord! I should think so; good
strong ale (six bushels to the barrel), and rattling
good double Gloucester till he could not eat any
more. I thought they'd have made him dead drunk,
but the brave boy (he-was the bugler) pushed
back the glass at last, and said, as stout as a
lion,

"Thankee, gentlemen, all the same, but I'll
take no more, or I shall not be able to do my duty
to-morrow thank you all the same." And HE
DID NOT, for all the pressing. Ah! 'twas a
brave bugler lad, that was."

The drummer was intensely interested, and
unconsciously, as Bucks spoke, kept unbuckling
his knapsack by a nervous restlessness of
fingers.

"Well, next day," went on Bucks, "I saw
this bugler go up to the sergeant, who had
stopped his week's money to prevent his
spending it. It was all in kindness of the sergeant,
but still he had no business to do it."

"No sergeant had no business," said Tom,
determinedly; "a sergeant can't interfere with
the boy's pay unless he has behaved bad."

"Well," continued Bucks, encouraged,  the
bugler boy went up to him, BRAVE AS A LION"
(roars so that the lady's-maid drops the
limp novel, thinking there is a collision, and
henceforward listens like a wise woman),
"'Why have you stopped my pay, sergeant?'
said he.

"The sergeant said, 'Never you mind, boy.'

"But he said, 'I will mind. I'll have my
fair money.'

"Then the sergeant said, 'I'll report you."

"But the drummer went on saying, 'If you
don't give me the money, I'll report you,
sergeant.'

"Then the sergeant, in his burning rage and
furious spite, called out to another boy to
sound the bugle, and he did it—sounded a sound,
but rather weak and poor like, and the men who
were by, laughed, and tapped their muskets on
the floor. Then the boy stood up again as bold
as a hero, and said, 'Is that the way you sound
a sound? Give it me!' And he took the bugle,
and blew such a sound, so clear and true, it was
good indeed to hear. He said, 'This is the way,
sergeant, to blow the bugle-call!' "Imagine this
story told in a jovial, unflinching crescendo of
voice, ending with a complete burst that stunned
us.

We all laughed, which encouraged Bucks, and
made him ten times noisier and redder. His
face now was a burning coal—he may
have been drinking. He now amused Idmself
by going over all the boy's accoutrements.
"This," says he, "is where you put your clean
shirts in for home, your pipeclay, and your
brushes; this is for your prog;" and so on,
touching each article like a showman as he
went.

"Did you ever put your head in a beehive?"
said Bucks, turning sharp round on me.

"No," said I, smiling, and watching his light
blue Saxon eyes and inflammatory face.

"Well, then, that's just the feeling I have in
my ears after being a bit in London—danged,
dirty, noisy place! How glad I shall be to get
back to Olney! I've worn this," said he,
touching the boy's red uniform, "though you
wouldn't think it."

"You have?" said I, with an expectant surprise,
which was as good as saying, "Let us hear,
then, all about it."

Bucks began by clenching both his red fists,
and placing them firmly on his two knees; then,
putting his head on one side, he opened fire
thus:

"I was in the Bucks Militia myself when I
wor eighteen yes, I wor eighteen as never
comes agin, when one doesn't care for the king
on his throne, not us!' (Violently, though no
one interrupted him, but his nature was
combative.) "I remember when the old Dook of
Buckingham, father of the present dook (he's
not worth a bad farthing now), reviewed eight
hundred of us in the great park at Stowe. He
was a big man, he was, a rattling good waggon-
load of stuff, he was." (Laugh.) "Seventeen
stone, if he weighed a bounce, gentlemen. He
used to come in his open yellow barouche every
parade day, and have his two greys (he always
drove greys), drawn up with their two noses
exactly opposite the two big drums" (digs his
two hands into two typical places on his two
thighs), "so as to accustom 'em to the noise, so
as they shouldn't never shy. Yes, I remember as
well as if it was yesterday the speech he made
to us the last review day ah, as well as if it was
yesterday! I was only eighteen then." (Tone
of manly regret not incommendable). "This is
what he said, said the dook: 'Officers and men
of the regiment of the Royal Bucks Militia, I
thank you heartily for the admirable manner you