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which Sir Arthur, our father, in speaking to a friend, said was the

finest in the service--namely, the Norfolk Rangers. We believe that

it is the custom, upon entering a regiment, to pay our footing, and I

have given a guinea to Corporal Skinner, and asked him to make it go

as far as he could."

There was great laughter over Tom's speech, which was just suited to

soldiers, and the boys from that moment were considered part of the

regiment.

"There's good stuff in those boys," an old sergeant said to another,

"plucky and cool. I shouldn't be surprised if what Tom Dillon said

was about right; he was waiting at mess just now, and though he didn't

hear all that was said, he picked up that there was an idea that

these boys are related to the old colonel. He was a good fellow, he

was, and, though I say nothing against Colonel Tritton, yet we missed

Colonel Scudamore terribly. Strict, and yet kind, just the sort of

fellow to serve under. If the boys take after him they will be a

credit to the regiment, and mark my words, we shan't see them in the

band many years."

CHAPTER IV.

A TOUGH CUSTOMER.

Like most boys who are fond of play, Tom and Peter Scudamore were

capable of hard work at a pinch, and during the three weeks that

they spent at Portsmouth they certainly worked with a will. They had

nothing to do in the way of duty, except to practice the bugle, and

this they did with a zeal and perseverance that quite won the heart

of Corporal Skinner, and enabled him to look upon Captain Manley's

two guineas as good as earned. But even with the best will and the

strongest lungs possible, boys can only blow a bugle a certain number

of hours a day. For an hour before breakfast, for two hours before

dinner, and for an hour and a half in the evening they practiced, the

evening work being extra, alone with their instructor. There remained

the whole afternoon to themselves. Their employment of those hours had

been undertaken at Peter's suggestion.

"Look here, Tom," he said, at the end of the first day's work, "from

what the corporal says, we shall have from one till about five to

ourselves. Now, we are going to Spain, and it seems to me that it

would be of great use to us, and might do us a great deal of good, to

know something of Spanish. We have got four pounds each left, and I

don't think that we could lay it out better than in getting a Spanish

master and some books, and in setting to in earnest at it. If we work

with all our might for four hours a day with a master, we shall have

made some progress, and shall pick up the pronunciation a little. I

dare say we shall be another ten days or a fortnight on the voyage,

and shall have lots of time on our hands. It will make it so much

easier to pick it up when we get there if we know a little to start

with."

"I think it is a capital idea, Peter; I should think we are pretty

sure to find a master here."

There was no difficulty upon that score, for there were a large number

of Spanish in England at the time; men who had left the country rather

than remain under the French yoke, and among them were many who were

glad to get their living by teaching their native language. There were

two or three in this condition in Portsmouth, and to one of these the

boys applied. He was rather surprised at the application from the two

young buglers--for the uniforms were finished twenty-four hours after

their arrival--but at once agreed to devote his whole afternoons to

them. Having a strong motive for their work, and a determination

to succeed in it, the boys made a progress that astonished both

themselves and their teacher, and they now found the advantage of

their grounding in Latin at Eton. Absorbed in their work, they saw

little of the other boys, except at meals and when at practice.

One evening when at supper, one of the buglers, named Mitcham, a lad

of nearly eighteen, made some sneering remark about boys who thought

themselves above others, and gave themselves airs. Tom saw at once

that this allusion was meant for them, and took the matter up.

"I suppose you mean us, Mitcham. You are quite mistaken; neither my

brother nor myself think ourselves better than any one, nor have we

any idea of giving ourselves airs. The fact is--and I am not surprised

that you should think us unsociable--we are taking lessons in Spanish.

If we go with the regiment it will be very useful, and I have heard

it said that any one who lands in a foreign country, and who knows a

little of the grammar and pronunciation, will learn it in half the

time that he would were he altogether ignorant of both. I am sorry

that I did not mention it before, because I can understand that it

must seem as if we did not want to be sociable. I can assure you that

we do; and that after this fortnight is over we shall be ready to be

as jolly as any one. You see we are altogether behindhand with our

work now, and have got to work hard to put ourselves on your level."

Tom spoke so good-temperedly that there was a general feeling in his

favor, and several of them who had before thought with Mitcham, that

the new-comers were not inclined to be sociable, felt that they had

been mistaken. There was, however, a general feeling of surprise

and amusement at the idea of two boys voluntarily taking lessons in

Spanish. Mitcham, however, who was a surly-tempered young fellow, and

who was jealous of the progress which the boys were making, and of the

general liking with which they seemed to be regarded, said,--

"I believe that's only an excuse for getting away from us."

"Do you mean to say that you think that I am telling a lie?" Tom asked

quietly.

"Yes, if you put it in that way, young 'un," Mitcham said.

"Hold your tongue, Mitcham, or I'll pull your ears for you," Corporal

Skinner said: but his speech was cut short by Tom's putting one hand

on the barrack table, vaulting across it, and striking Mitcham a heavy

blow between the eyes.

There was a cry of "a fight!" among the boys, but the men interfered

at once.

"You don't know what you are doing, young 'un," one said to Tom;

"when you hit a fellow here, you must fight him. That's the rule, and

you can't fight Mitcham; he's two years older, at least, and a head

taller."

"Of course I will fight him," Tom said. "I would fight him if he were

twice as big, if he called me a liar."

"Nonsense, young 'un!" another said, "it's not possible. He was wrong,

and if you had not struck him I would have licked him myself; but as

you have done so, you had better put up with a thrashing, and have

done with it."

"I should think so, indeed!" Tom said disdainfully. "I may get a

licking; I dare say I shall; but it won't be all on one side. Look

here, Mitcham, we will have it out to-morrow, on the ramparts behind

the barracks. But, if you will apologize to me for calling me a liar,

I'll say I am sorry I hit you."

"Oh, blow your sorrow!" the lad said. "I'll give you the heartiest

licking you ever had in your life, my young cock."

"Oh, all right," Tom said cheerfully. "We will see all about it when

the time comes."

As it was evident now that there was no way out of it, no one

interfered further in the matter. Quarrels in the army are always

settled by a fair fight, as at school; but several of the older men

questioned among themselves whether they ought to let this go on,

considering that Tom Scudamore was only between fifteen and sixteen,

while his opponent was two years older, and was so much heavier and

stronger. However, as it was plain that Tom would not take a thrashing

for the blow he had struck, and there did not seem any satisfactory

way out of it, nothing was done, except that two or three of them went

up to Mitcham, and strongly urged him to shake hands with Tom, and

confess that he had done wrong in giving him the lie. This Mitcham

would not hear of, and there was nothing further to be done.

"I am afraid, Tom, you have no chance with that fellow." Peter said,

as they were undressing.

"No chance in the world, Peter; but I can box fairly, you know, and am

pretty hard. I shall be able to punish him a bit, and you may be sure

I shall never give in. It's no great odds getting a licking, and I

suppose that they will stop it before I am killed. Don't bother about

it. I had rather get knocked about in a fight than get flogged at Eton

any day. I would rather you did not come to see it, Peter, if you

don't mind. When you fought Evans it hurt me ten times as much as if I

had been fighting, and, although you licked him, it made me feel like

a girl. I can stand twice the punishment if I don't feel that any blow

is hitting you as well as myself."

Tom's prediction about the fight turned out to be nearly correct. He

was more active, and a vastly better boxer than his antagonist, and

although he was constantly knocked down, he punished him very heavily

about the face. In fact, the fight was exactly similar to that great

battle, fifty years afterwards, between Sayers and Heenan. Time after

time Tom was knocked down, and even his second begged him to give in,

but he would not hear of it. Breathless and exhausted, but always

cool and smiling, he faced his heavy antagonist, eluding his furious

rushes, and managing to strike a few straight blows at his eyes before

being knocked down. By the time that they had fought a quarter of

an hour half the regiment was assembled, and loud were the cheers

which greeted Tom each time he came up, very pale and bleeding, but

confident, against his antagonist.

At last an old sergeant came forward. "Come," he said, "there has been

enough of this. You had better stop."

"Will he say he was sorry he called me a liar?" Tom asked.

"No, I won't," Mitcham answered.

The sergeant was about to use his authority to stop it, when Tom said

to him, in a low voice:

"Look, sergeant! please let us go on another five minutes. I think I

can stand that, and he can hardly see out of his eyes now. He won't

see a bit by that time."

The sergeant hesitated, but a glance at Tom's antagonist convinced him

that what he said was correct. Mitcham had at all times a round and

rather puffy face, and his cheeks were now so swollen with the effect

of Tom's straight, steady hitting, that he could with difficulty see.

It was a hard five minutes for Tom, for his antagonist, finding that

he was rapidly getting blind, rushed with fury upon him, trying to end

the fight. Tom had less difficulty in guarding the blows, given wildly

and almost at random, but he was knocked down time after time by the

mere force and weight of the rush. He felt himself getting weak, and

could hardly get up from his second's knee upon the call of time.

He was not afraid of being made to give in, but he was afraid of

fainting, and of so being unable to come up to time.

"Stick a knife into me; do anything!" he said to his second, "if I go

off, only bring me up to time. He can't hold out much longer."

Nor could he. His hitting became more and more at random, until at

last, on getting up from his second's knee, Mitcham cried in a hoarse

voice, "Where is he? I can't see him!"

Then Tom went forward with his hands down. "Look here, Mitcham, you

can't see, and I can hardly stand. I think we have both done enough.

We neither of us can give in, well because--because I am a gentleman,

you because you are bigger than I am; so let's shake hands, and say no

more about it."

Mitcham hesitated an instant, and then held out his hand. "You are a

good fellow, Scudamore, and there's my hand; but you have licked me

fairly. I can't come up to time, and you can. There, I am sorry I

called you a liar."

Tom took the hand, and shook it, and then a mist came over his eyes,

and his knees tottered, as, with the ringing cheers of the men in his

ears, he fainted into his second's arms.

"What a row the men are making!" the major said, as the sound of

cheering came through the open window of the mess-room, at which the

officers were sitting at lunch. "It's a fight of course, and a good

one, judging by the cheering. Does any one know who it is between?"

No one had heard.

"It's over now," the adjutant said, looking out of the window, "Here

are the men coming down in a stream. They look very excited over it. I

wonder who it has been. Stokes," he said, turning to one of the mess

servants, "go out, and find out who has been fighting, and all about

it."

In a minute or two the man returned. "It's two of the band boys, sir."

"Oh, only two boys! I wonder they made such a fuss over that. Who are

they?"

"One was one of the boys who have just joined, sir. Tom Scudamore,

they call him."

"I guessed as much," Captain Manley laughed; "I knew they would not be

long here without a fight. Who was the other?"

"Well, sir, I almost thought it must be a mistake when they told me,

seeing they are so unequally matched, but they all say so, so in

course it's true--the other was Mitcham, the bugler of No. 3 Company."

"What a shame!" was the general exclamation, while Captain Manley got

up and called for his cap.

"A brutal shame, I call it," he said hotly. "Mitcham's nearly a man.

It ought not to have been allowed. I will go and inquire after the

boy. I will bet five pounds he was pretty nearly killed before he gave

in."

"He didn't give in, Captain Manley," the servant said. "He won the

fight. They fought till Mitcham couldn't see, and then young Scudamore

went up and offered to draw it, but Mitcham acknowledged he was fairly