THE THING THAT COUNTS.
“LITTLE chap!—you mustn’t mind like that.”
Norah kept her face from the room, looking out into the hurrying London
street. Something quite unfamiliar was in her throat—a hard, hot lump.
She felt Jim’s hand on her shoulder, but she would not look at him until
she had mastered the lump’s determination to choke her.
She turned to him in a moment.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” she said penitently. “I didn’t mean to be such an
idiot—truly.”
“You’re weak,” said Jim, with concern. “You can’t get influenza and be
in bed in this beastly hotel for three weeks without feeling it. Never
mind, kiddie—you’ll be better as soon as you can get out into the
country.”
“I expect it’s the influenza,” Norah answered, seizing upon so excellent
an excuse, but still despising herself very heartily. “I never was in
bed so long before; and it doesn’t buck one up. And I wasn’t expecting
to see you in your uniform, and—and——” She turned back to the window
hurriedly.
Jim talked on, as if he had not noticed.
“We’ll be able to see quite a lot of you,” he said. “It’s great luck
going into camp at Aldershot—if you’re in London we’ll be able to run
up often; and of course, if you’re not, it will be because you’ve come
to live even nearer. We were jolly lucky to have had so much Australian
training—it has saved us a heap of fagging here.”
“Yes, it was great luck,” said Norah, to the window.
“You’ve got to get fat, by the way;” said Jim. “This little influenza
game of yours, has pulled you down—you’ll have your shoulder through
your dress, if you don’t watch it. I was talking to a fellow from
Aldershot this morning, at the tailor’s: he says it may be months before
we go out to the front. Or we may be put on garrison duty somewhere in
England. They want us to be as fit as possible before we go.” He
laughed, shortly. “Fit! and he says that ordinarily a regular regiment
reckons that it’s two years after a subaltern joins—even after
Sandhurst training—before they consider him worth his salt! Well, I
hope we won’t make a mess of it, that’s all.”
“You won’t make any mess of anything,” Norah cried, indignantly,
swinging round to face him. “You know ever so much already—drill and
shooting and riding—”
“What I don’t know would fill a barn,” said Jim sagely. “Drill isn’t
everything—there’s knowing men, and handling them, and finding out what
you can do and what you can’t. It makes you nearly scared to be an
officer, sometimes.” He squared his shoulders resolutely. “But I’m going
to have a mighty hard try at my job. I believe it’s something of a start
in the right direction to know that one doesn’t know much!”
Norah fingered the star on his cuff.
“Well—there are ever so many more ignorant than you.”
“That’s the awful part of it,” Jim said soberly. “I believe there
are—and that says a heap! I know just enough to be sure I’ve got to
start learning and work at it like fun. But one hears that half the
fellows think that they can mug up the whole game in a month, and go
cheerily out to the Front. Well, it’s all very well if you’re a private.
But if you’ve even one star you may be responsible for other men’s
lives.” He shrugged. “It’s a queer country. Why on earth can’t they
catch them young and train them, as they do in Australia? It never hurts
any of us!”
“Dad says they will have to do it some time.”
“So they will. But if they had done it before, there mightn’t have been
a war at all.”
Down the corridor they heard the clash of the lift-door shutting, and
then quick steps.
“Here’s Wally,” Jim said, smiling. “He’s been struggling into his Sam
Browne belt. You just see if he doesn’t look topping!”
Wally burst into the sitting-room like an avalanche.
“Hallo, Norah, I’m so glad you’re up! Better?—truly—honest? You look a
bit sorry on it—poor old girl. We’re going to get you out this
afternoon—the sun is actually shining, and goodness knows, it may never
occur again!” He brought his heels together with a click, standing
before her, tall, and straight, and merry. “How does the kit look, Nor?”
Behind him, David Linton came in quietly. Like Norah, he looked from one
to the other; boys only, big and brave in their new khaki with its
touches of brass and leather—manhood very close before them.
“You both look beautiful—that is, your uniforms do!” said Norah. “We’ll
be exceedingly proud to go out with you, won’t we, Dad?”
“I’ll be exceedingly glad when I get some of the newness off,” Jim said.
“When one sees people back from the front, a bit stained and worn, it
makes one feel cheap to be creaking along, just turned out like a
tailor’s block.”
“From all I hear of Aldershot mud, we won’t have long to wait for the
stains,” said Wally, comfortably. “And London mud is an excellent
breaking in—you wait till a merry motor-’bus passes you at full tilt,
and you’ll get all the marking you want! This city for wet grubbiness in
January comes up to Melbourne in the same month for dry
grubbiness—think of old Melbourne on a hot north wind day, with the
dust in good going order!”
“But to-day isn’t bad,” Jim said; “there’s really sunshine, and it’s not
so cold. Don’t you think, Dad, we might take the patient out?”
“I’m not a patient any more,” Norah disclaimed. “It was bad enough to be
one for three weeks—I’m quite well now. Do let us go out.”
“I’ve ordered some sort of a carriage,” said Mr. Linton—“having
foreseen mutiny on the part of the invalid. It should be ready; get your
things on, Norah, and make sure there are plenty of them. The sun here
isn’t what you would call a really warm specimen of its kind.”
It was a watery sun, but it shone brightly enough on Piccadilly as they
drove along the splendid street. On either side great smoke-grimed
buildings towered high: but above them the sky was blue, and in
Piccadilly Circus there was a brave show of flowers, though the
“flower-girls”—who are rather weird old women—shivered under their
shawls among their baskets of violets and tulips. One had a basket that
made Norah suddenly cry out.
“Why, it’s gum-leaves!”
They stopped the carriage, and Wally jumped out and ran back, returning
presently with a little cluster of eucalyptus boughs, with yet unopened
capsules among the grey-green foliage.
“She says it came from the South of France,” he said. “But it’s good
enough to be Australian!”
To Norah it was quite good enough. She held the fragrant leaves
throughout their drive—seeing, beyond the roar and grime of London
streets, open plains with clumps of gum-trees—seeing their leaves stir
and rustle as the sweet wind blew through.
From Piccadilly they turned into Hyde Park. Above the great gateway was
a queer erection—the searchlight that every night scanned the sky above
London for aeroplanes. Everywhere in the Park were soldiers; companies
marching and drilling, some in khaki, and others in any scraps of
uniform that could be found for them temporarily—including even the
scarlet tunic of other days. Officers were riding their chargers in the
Row; and carriages drove up and down with wounded soldiers out for an
airing in charge of nurses; men with arms or legs in splints, or with
bandages showing under their caps. The Park looked shabby and worn, its
brilliant grass trodden almost out of existence by the thousands of men
who drilled there daily. Its sacred precincts were even invaded by rough
buildings and tents—war stores, outside which stood sentries with fixed
bayonets. No longer was it London’s most cherished pleasure-ground, but
a part of the machinery of War.
Everything about them spoke of War: the marching soldiers, the wounded
men, the newsboys who shouted the latest tidings in the streets. The
shops were full of soldiers’ comforts and of Service kit: the darkened
lamps gave mute testimony to its nearness. There was no topic in all
their world but War. Men and women alike were preparing and helping;
even children had taken on a new gravity since they had learned how many
of the fathers and brothers who marched away came back no more. Boys
fresh from school had been swallowed up by its hungry mouth; boys still
in the playground were drilling, impatient for the day that saw them old
enough to follow their companions.
And they themselves were part of its machinery. War had brought them
across the world; and the more nearly they approached the thunder of the
guns, the less important became their own concerns, except so far as
they touched War. Home—Australia—Billabong; all their little story
faded into insignificance, even to themselves. Things which had been
important no longer counted: personal grief and happiness, personal
success and failure, a wave of great happenings had swept them all
away—of all their concerns nothing mattered now except the two cheery
lads in khaki who looked with curious eyes at London, and thought no
high-souled thoughts at all, but simply of doing the “decent thing.”
To Norah the realisation came home suddenly. Dimly she had been seeing
and feeling these things during the weeks that she had lain ill while
her father and the boys were busied about commissions and uniforms: and
now the knowledge came to her that where great matters of duty and
honour are concerned, individual matters drop out. The nation’s honour
was the individual’s honour: therefore the individual became as never
before, a part of the nation, and forgot his or her own concerns in the
greater responsibility. Suffering and trouble might come: but there
would always be the help of pride in the knowledge that honour was the
only thing that really lasted.
The boys were merry enough as they drove round the Park, and, leaving
the carriage, strolled through Kensington Gardens. Peter Pan’s statue
looked at them from its green background; and Norah found a quaint hint
of Wally in the carved face of the boy “who wouldn’t grow up.” Children
in woollen coats and long gaiters were sailing boats on the Round Pond;
Jim rescued an adventurous cutter which had gone too far, to the loudly
expressed despair of its owner, an intrepid navigator of four. But the
ordinary Park games of the children were almost deserted, for there was
a daily game of absorbing interest now—soldiers to watch, who manœuvred
and drilled and marched, until there were few Park children who did not
know half the drill themselves. Small boys drew themselves up and
saluted Jim and Wally smartly—to the embarrassment of those yet
unfledged warriors: even babies in perambulators crowed at the sight of
the uniforms and the cheery sound of bands playing the men back to
barracks.
They came upon one ridiculous knot of street urchins—ragged youngsters
who had manufactured caps and belts and putties out of yellow paper, and
were marching in excellent order under their leader, a proud lad with a
wooden sword. They halted, and engaged an imaginary enemy vigorously;
some falling gloriously on the field of battle, the others routing the
foe with great slaughter, and finally carrying off the wounded. Jim gave
them sixpence, which the captain accepted with the gravity with which a
soldier may receive the V.C.
There were other people in the Gardens—women in mourning, and some who
wore only an armlet of black or purple. They were sad-faced women; and
yet they bore themselves proudly, and their look was high as it dwelt
upon the uniformed lads who passed them. It was not possible to see
them, and not to know what their proud thoughts were, and what their
grief. Men looked at them reverently—women who had given up their dear
ones to Empire and were steadfast and brave in the memories that were
all they had left.
The afternoon darkened, and a chilly wind began to ruffle the surface of
the Round Pond and to fill the sails of the tiny yachts. Mr. Linton
hurried Norah to the shelter of the carriage, and they drove back to the
hotel, through the roaring traffic of Oxford Street.
“Did you ever see such a jam?” Wally ejaculated. They were halted in a
block near Oxford Circus; ahead of them dozens of motor-’buses, around
them taxi-cabs, carriages, and huge carts; and all fitted into the
smallest available spaces, like the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. In front
of all a policeman held a mighty, white-gloved hand, huge and
compelling. Presently he lowered it, and the packed vehicles began to
move across the open space of the Circus, while the released body of
foot-passengers streamed over like a swarm of ants.
“You know,” said Jim, looking with admiring reverence at the policeman,
“a few of those chaps would be very useful at the Front, in case of a
rout among our fellows. They would only have to hold up that immense
white hand and the flight would stop like a shot!”
“Yes, and in the interval between those duties they could be directing
the forward movement to Berlin!” said Wally eagerly. “Let’s suggest it
to the War Office!”
“I would, if we hadn’t got our commissions,” said Jim. “As it is, I want
to stay in the Army. Reformers always have a poor time at the hands of
officials.”
The carriage stopped, and they hurried into the hotel, glad to get away
from the keen January wind. Jim came last, after paying the coachman;
Norah paused in the warm, carpeted lounge to wait for him. As he entered
quickly, tall and good to look at, in his khaki, an old lady with a
black armlet passed out. Jim held the swing door for her. She looked at
him and stopped involuntarily: in her face such a mingling of longing
and sorrow that the boy’s glance dropped, unable to meet those hungry
mother-eyes. For a moment her lip quivered; then, she forced a smile.
“You are going out?” she asked.
“I hope so,” Jim answered gravely.
“May I wish you luck, and shake hands with you?” She put out her hand,
and Jim took it in his brown paw, gently.
“Thank you,” he said. They looked at each other for a moment, and then
the mother who had no son passed on.
Norah and Jim went up the staircase in silence. Tea was waiting, and
Norah poured it out; the boys waiting on her. She was still weak after
her illness: glad, presently to go to lie down, at Mr. Linton’s
injunction. She wanted to get herself in hand before the parting came:
it was bad enough to have even once gone near to breaking down. English
influenza, Norah thought, had a depressing effect upon one’s backbone.
Jim came in soon, and sat down on the bed, tucking her up warmly. They
talked in low voices of the time that was coming.
“So you’ll just be the plucky little mate you’ve always been,” Jim said
to her, at last. “Remember, it’s your job. This thing is so big that
there’s more or less of a job for every one. Only I think a man’s is
simpler—at least it’s ready waiting for him, but a woman has got to go
and hunt hers up. You aren’t a woman, kiddie, but you’re going to look
after your job.”
“I’m going to try,” Norah said.
“It’s hard on Dad,” said Jim. “He’s getting old, and sometimes I think
he isn’t as strong as he was. I’ll be worried about him all the time I’m
away: but I’d be much more worried if you hadn’t come. It’s a tremendous
weight off my mind that I’m leaving you to look after him.”
Norah flushed with pleasure.
“Is it, Jim? I’m so glad.”
“Why, you’re almost everything to him,” Jim said. “I’m not going to
think of morbid things, because the chances are that Wally and I will
come back: but if I don’t, I know Dad won’t have lost the best thing he
has.”
“Please, Jimmy,” said Norah, very low.
“I won’t, old chap,” said Jim. “Just don’t worry, and try not to let Dad
worry: and both of you get busy. There are heaps of relief jobs for
people who really want to work. And afterwards you’ll be satisfied
because you really did your bit in the war. If every one did just their
little bit the whole job would be done in no time. It’s the slackers
that keep it going—and you never were a slacker, Nor. You’ve always
done your share.”
“Mine is such a tiny little share,” Norah said. “It hardly seems to
count.”
“Don’t you believe it!” Jim answered. “We can’t all do a big thing, like
Kitchener and Jellicoe; and lots of men never get a chance for
distinction—they say half the V.C’s and D.S.O’s are pure luck. But
every one has got some sort of a little row to hoe, and everyone’s row
counts. Your job is partly to look after Dad, and I believe you’ll do it
best by getting busy—both of you. Dad will go to pieces if he’s idle,
and worrying about Wally and me.”
“I won’t let him,” said Norah, nodding. “I promise, Jim. We’ll work.”
“Then that’s all right,” Jim said. “And you’ll keep fit yourself; and
we’ll see you ever so often.”
“Oh—do come often!” Norah whispered. They wrung each other’s hands.
Then Mr. Linton came in, and also sat down on the bed, and they managed
to be quite cheerful, and made great plans for excursions when Norah
should be quite strong and the boys came up from Aldershot. It might be
three months, or three days, before they were sent out to the
fighting-line: there was nothing to be gained by speaking of it.
Jim looked at his watch, at length.
“Nearly time we went,” he said.
Norah jumped up and made a valiant attempt to tidy her curly hair—on
the state of which Wally made severe comments when they rejoined him,
declaring that she might have been crawling under the haystack at home.
“I know I’ve got to remember I’m in London,” said Norah penitently,
“Wally, why will you be like Aunt Eva!”
“Never mind—we’ll bring you a large bunch of assorted German scalps
when we come back from the Front,” said Wally. “They’ll look lovely in
the hall at Billabong, among the native weapons!”
“If you bring your own scalps in good order, we’ll excuse you the
Germans,” said Mr. Linton.
“If you leave untidy German oddments about Billabong, Brownie will be
annoyed!” said Norah, laughing. “Oh, won’t it be lovely when we all go
back!”
“It will be just the best spree we ever had—and that is saying a lot!”
Wally answered. He looked down at Norah. “There’s something a bit unfair
about this, you know,” he declared. “Norah has been in all our plans
ever since she was a bit of a youngster; and now we’ve got to go and
leave her out, for the first time. We’ll have to work up something very
special when we come back, old Nor, to make up for it.”
“The very most special thing will be to go back—all together,” Norah
said. “And don’t you trouble about me—I’ll find a job. You’ll be a
bit—just a little bit—careful about dry socks, won’t you, boys? And
send me them to darn every week. Aldershot will be terribly hard on
socks.” She looked at the clock, following the direction of Jim’s eyes.
“I know it’s time you were off,” she said, straightening her shoulders
and looking at them with a little smile.
David Linton watched the tall young forms dive into the throbbing taxi.
It darted off among the traffic, and he went back to their sitting-room.
There was a hint of age in his face.
“Well, little mate?” he said.
Norah sat on the hearthrug, and leaned her head against his knee. They
fought their loneliness together. And since the fight was for each
other, they succeeded.
“It’s a big thing,” the father said, presently. “I’m glad they’re not
out of it, Norah, whatever comes. Please God we’ll get them back—but if
we don’t, we’ll know they did their best. It’s not a bad cause for
pride—to do their best, in a big thing.”
He was silent, his hand on Norah’s hair.
“We’ll always have that,” she said.
“Yes—always. Only it’s a bit hard on you, Norah. You have always been
such mates.”
Norah found his hand and put her cheek against it.
“We’re all mates—always—no matter what happens,” she said. “Don’t you
worry about me, Daddy—I’ve got my job.”
[Illustration: “He brought his heels together with a click.”]
_From Billabong to London_] [_Page_ 310
THE END.
London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited.
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always writes well, but the publishers have no hesitation in claiming
that in “John of Daunt,” she is seen at her best. Her titular character
is as charming, original, and lovable as any the author has ever
conceived, and the book should add much to her reputation.
Stories by
ETHEL TURNER
Large Crown 8vo, Fully Illustrated, Cloth Gilt, 2_s._ 6_d._
SEVEN LITTLE AUSTRALIANS.
THE FAMILY AT MISRULE.
THE LITTLE LARRIKIN.
MISS BOBBIE.
THE CAMP AT WANDINONG.
THREE LITTLE MAIDS.
STORY OF A BABY.
LITTLE MOTHER MEG.
BETTY AND CO.
MOTHER’S LITTLE GIRL.
THE WHITE ROOF-TREE.
IN THE MIST OF THE MOUNTAINS.
THE STOLEN VOYAGE.
FUGITIVES FROM FORTUNE.
THE RAFT IN THE BUSH.
AN OGRE UP-TO-DATE.
THAT GIRL.
THE SECRET OF THE SEA.
THE APPLE OF HAPPINESS.
FAIR INES.
THE FLOWER O’ THE PINE.
THE CUB.
PORTS AND HAPPY HAVENS. (3_s._ 6_d._)
STORIES BY
Mary Grant Bruce
Large Crown 8vo, Fully Illustrated, Cloth Gilt, =2=s. =6=d.
JIM AND WALLY.
Mrs. Bruce writes with a freedom and grace which must win hosts of
readers, and there is a loveableness about her Australian youths and
maidens which makes one never tired of their healthy and sociable views
of life.
A LITTLE BUSH MAID.
“It is a real pleasure to recommend this story to Australian
readers.”—_Perth Western Mail._
MATES AT BILLABONG.
“The incidents of station life, its humours, festivities, and mishaps,
are admirably sketched in this vivid narrative.”—_Adelaide Register._
TIMOTHY IN BUSHLAND.
“The writer understands all about the wonders of the Australian bush,
its wild horses, kangaroos, wombats, and infinitely various natural
life.”—_Daily Telegraph._
GLEN EYRE.
“‘Glen Eyre’ is a great advance upon anything we have read of Mrs.
Bruce’s earlier work. An admirable story exquisitely told, full of
gentle pathos, and ringing true all through.”—_The Sportsman._
NORAH OF BILLABONG.
“The story is written in a refreshing and lovable manner, which makes
instant appeal, and we are quite sure the authoress will be asked for
still ‘more Norah’.”—_Manchester Courier._
GRAY’S HOLLOW.
“A story always healthy and enjoyable in its sympathetic delineation of
unsophisticated nature in both scenery and human beings.”—_The
Scotsman._
FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON.
“The story has many more incidents than Mrs. Bruce’s earlier books, and
though her style is quiet and matter-of-fact, she does succeed in
infusing reality into her exciting episodes.”—_The Melbourne Argus._
CHARMING STORIES BY
Isabel M. Peacocke
Fully Illustrated, Crown 8vo, =3=s. =6=d.
MY FRIEND PHIL
With Six Illustrations in Colour by MARGARET W. TARRANT.
“QUEENSLAND TIMES.”—“A really delicious book . . . without doubt it is
far and away the best book since Ethel Turner took the reading world by
storm with her ‘Seven Little Australians.’ Phil is an eternal
questioner, quizzer and actor. He is no white-haired Willie, but a
natural, frank, unconventional young imp, who carries a golden heart and
withal is a perfect gentleman. There is no laying down this book when
opened until the end is reached, be the reader young or old.”
DICKY, KNIGHT-ERRANT
With Six Illustrations by HAROLD COPPING.
MISS PEACOCKE is a new writer, who attracted attention last year by the
publication of a phenomenally successful story entitled “My Friend
Phil,” which has been recently dramatised, and also produced as a cinema
play. It is far and away the best book since Ethel Turner took the
reading world by storm with “Seven Little Australians.” The tale was
droll, sympathetic, bright and full of literary charm. All the author’s
fine qualities are reproduced in “Dicky, Knight-Errant,” the story of a
delightful scamp of a Boy-Scout, who flits through a love romance like
Cupid, and will cheer the hearts of young and old alike. The story is
brim full of excitement and jollity, and is altogether sweet.
The Little Wonder
Books
Medium 16mo, Picture Boards. =1=s. =0=d.
The many children in all parts of the world who have grown accustomed
year by year to look for THE WONDER BOOK as the most welcome feature of
Christmas or the birthday will learn with interest that the big WONDER
BOOK has now some little brothers and sisters. THE LITTLE WONDER BOOKS
are not for big boys and girls at all; they are the little ones’ very
own. Each booklet contains about Thirty Illustrations in Colour, printed
on the very best art paper, and the type is so large and clear that it
will not baffle even the tiniest toddler. Best of all, the stories are
real stories, such as little people love and learn by heart almost
without knowing they do so.
1. BOBBY BUN AND BUNTY.
2. THE BROWNIES’ BIRTHDAY.
3. APPLE TREE VILLA.
4. TIM TUBBY TOES.
5. MOTHER GOOSE: Nursery Rhymes.
6. TICK, TACK AND TOCK.
7. BULLY BOY.
8. ROBBIE AND DOBBIE.
9. THE ANIMAL A.B.C.
10. BEN BO’SUN.
11. THE TOY SOLDIERS.
12. BUBBLE AND SQUEAK.
13. OLD NOT-TOO-BRIGHT AND LILYWHITE.
14. THE GOBLIN SCOUTS.
C. G. D. Roberts’
NATURE BOOKS
Large Crown 8vo. Cloth Gilt. Fully Illustrated.
Pictorial Endpapers. =2=s. =6=d.
A Beautifully produced series of Animal Stories by a writer who has
succeeded in depicting the many thrilling incidents connected with
Animal Life with a reality unapproached by any other living Author.
HOOF AND CLAW
THE HOUSE IN THE WATER
THE BACKWOODSMEN
KINGS IN EXILE
NEIGHBOURS UNKNOWN
MORE KINDRED OF THE WILD
THE FEET OF THE FURTIVE
“Under the guidance of Mr. Roberts we have often adventured among the
wild beasts of the land and sea, and we hope to do so many times in the
future. It is an education not to be missed by those who have the
chance, and the chance is everyone’s. Mr. Roberts loves his wild nature,
and his readers, both old and young, should love it with
him.”—_Athenæum._
WARD, LOCK & CO.’S
Favourite Gift Books
OF AUSTRALIAN CHILD LIFE.
By LILIAN TURNER.
=2=s. =6=d.
AN AUSTRALIAN LASSIE.
BETTY, THE SCRIBE.
PARADISE AND THE PERRYS.
THE PERRY GIRLS.
THREE NEW CHUM GIRLS.
APRIL GIRLS.
STAIRWAYS TO THE STARS.
A GIRL FROM THE BACK BLOCKS.
WAR’S HEART THROBS.
By VERA G. DWYER.
=2=s. =6=d.
WITH BEATING WINGS.
A WAR OF GIRLS.
MONA’S MYSTERY MAN.
CONQUERING HAL.
By OTHER AUTHORS.
=2=s. =6=d.
MAORILAND FAIRY TALES.
EDITH HOWES.
MAX THE SPORT.
LILIAN M. PYKE.
DAYS THAT SPEAK.
EVELYN GOODE.
THE CHILDHOOD OF HELEN.
EVELYN GOODE.
The Story of a Great Soldier
LORD ROBERTS
(K.G., V.C.),
By CAPTAIN OWEN WHEELER
Author of
“The Story of Our Army,” “The War Office, Past and
Present,” etc.
Large Crown 8vo. Fully Illustrated, =3=s. =6=d. net.
It has been felt that a life so adventurous and romantic as that of the
great Field-Marshal should be enshrined in a volume which, while
moderate in price, should also be authoritative, carefully and
accurately written, and suitable especially for presentation to boys,
both of this and future generations.
The task of producing such a life has been very successfully
accomplished by Captain Owen Wheeler, whose reputation as a writer on
military men and military matters is too widely spread to need further
reference.
As a
GIFT BOOK FOR BOYS
of all ages this story of a dauntless hero could scarcely be surpassed,
for long after his deeds as a soldier have lost all but historical
significance his character will remain as an example to the manhood of
Great Britain and the Empire, and indeed of all English-speaking races.
The book is
LAVISHLY ILLUSTRATED
with portraits and drawings which practically depict the battle-history
of the British Empire during a period of sixty years.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.
Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.