Lieut.-Col. Reginald Grant,
“Indian Staff Corps.”
Now, it chanced that among Martin’s most valued belongings was a certain monthly publication entitled “Recent British Battles,” and he had read that identical name in the July number. As was his way, he remembered exactly the heroic deeds with which a gallant officer was credited, so he asked somewhat shyly:
“Are you Colonel Grant of Aliwal, sir?”
He pronounced the Indian word wrongly, with a short “a” instead of a long one, but never did misplaced accent convey sweeter sound to man’s ears. The soldier was positively startled.
“My dear boy,” he cried, “how can you possibly know me?”
“Everyone knows your name, sir. No fear of me forgetting it now.”
The honest admiration in those brown eyes was a new form of flattery; for the first time in his life Colonel Grant hungered for more.
“You have astonished me more than I can tell,” he said. “What have you read of the Aliwal campaign? All right, Dobson. We are in no hurry.” This to his companion, who ventured on a mild remonstrance.
“I have a book, sir, which tells you all about Aliwal”—this time Martin pronounced the word correctly; no wonder the newspaper commented on his intelligence—“and it has pictures, too. There is a grand picture of you, riding through the gate of the fort, sword in hand. Do you mind me saying, sir, that I am very pleased to have met you?”