One Sunday morning as Rawdon Crawley, his little son, and the pony were taking their accustomed walk, they passed an old acquaintance of the Colonel's, Corporal Clink, who was in conversation with an old gentleman, who held a boy in his arms about the age of little Rawdon. The other youngster had seized hold of the Waterloo medal which the Corporal wore, and was examining it with delight.
"Good-morning, your honour," said Clink, in reply to the "How do,
Clink?" of the Colonel. "This 'ere young gentleman is about the little
Colonel's age, sir," continued the Corporal.
"His father was a Waterloo man, too," said the old gentleman who carried the boy. "Wasn't he, Georgie?"
"Yes, sir," said Georgie. He and the little chap on the pony were looking at each other with all their might, solemnly scanning each other as children do.
"His father was a captain in the—the regiment," said the old gentleman rather pompously. "Captain George Osborne, sir—perhaps you knew him. He died the death of a hero, sir, fighting against the Corsican tyrant"
"I knew him very well, sir," said Colonel Crawley, "and his wife, his dear little wife, sir—how is she?"
"She is my daughter, sir," said the old gentleman proudly, putting down the boy, and taking out his card, which he handed to the Colonel, while little Georgie went up and looked at the Shetland pony.
"Should you like to have a ride?" said Rawdon minor from the saddle.
"Yes," said Georgie. The Colonel, who had been looking at him with some interest, took up the child and put him on the pony behind Rawdon minor.
"Take hold of him, Georgie," he said; "take my little boy around the waist; his name is Rawdon." And both the children began to laugh.