The boy who used to take flying jumps on to the ball and roll over and over with it, because he was big and fat and could not run, took a flying jump onto a Burmese dacoit whom he had surprised by night in a stockade; but he forgot that he was much heavier than he had been at School, and by the time he rolled off his victim the little dacoit was stone dead.
And there was a boy who was always being led astray by bad advice, and begging off punishment on that account. He got into some little scrape when he grew up, and we who knew him knew, before he was reprimanded by his commanding officer, exactly what his excuse would be. It came out almost word for word as he was used to whimper it at School. He was cured, though by being sent off on a small expedition where he alone would be responsible for any advice that was going, as well as for fifty soldiers.
And the best boy of all—he was really good, not book good—was shot in the thigh as he was leading his men up the ramp of a fortress. All he said was, “Put me up against that tree and take my men on”; and when the men came back he was dead.
Ages and ages ago, when Queen Victoria was shot at by a man in the street, the School paper made some verses about it that ended like this:
One school of many, made to make
Men who shall hold it dearest right
To battle for their ruler’s sake,
And stake their being in the fight,
Sends greeting, humble and sincere,
Though verse be rude and poor and mean,