te by
accident, and the young beggar won't smell a rat till we are safe in
Gurley."

"And if he turns cantankerous?"

"Then we can put Shaddy to look after him."

"Who's going to win the Gulley Plate, Gus?"

And then the party fell to canvassing the entries for the morrow's
races, and making their bets, in which, of course, Tom stood almost
bound to lose, whichever horse won.

Long ere they had parted company Charlie was sound asleep and dreaming,
with me under his pillow.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

HOW MY MASTER DID NOT CATCH THE FISH HE EXPECTED.

About ten years before the time of my story it had happened that in a
famous battle fought between her Majesty's troops and those of a hostile
and savage king, the colours of the 300th Regiment were noticed to be in
imminent peril of capture. The ensign who carried them was wounded, and
already a score of the enemy were rushing forward to seize the prize and
carry it off in triumph to their king. Suddenly, however, there dashed
up to the spot a young cornet of dragoons, who, seeing the peril of his
fellow-officer and the colours he carried, dragged him, flag and all, up
nearly into his own saddle, and started off with his precious burden
towards a place of shelter from the fire and spears of the savages.
Before, however, he had gone twenty yards the poor ensign tumbled to the
ground, shot through the heart, yielding with his dying hands his
colours to the dragoon. That plucky young soldier, wrapping the torn
and stained flag round his body, set his teeth, stooped forward in his
saddle, and, digging his spurs into his horse, galloped for his life.
He had a terrific gauntlet to run, and grandly he ran it. The friendly
trench was in sight, the cheers of his comrades fell like music on his
ears, a vision of glory and honour flashed through his mind, and then
suddenly he reeled forward in his seat--a malignant shot had found him
out at last, and, with the colours round him, he dropped from his horse
into his comrades' arms a dead man.

This hero was an old Randlebury boy; and ever since that day, on every
anniversary of his glorious death, Randlebury kept, and still keeps,
holiday.

All this Charlie was informed of by his faithful chum, Jim Halliday, as
the former was dressing himself on the morning of the eventful holiday
in question.

What possessed him to get up at six, when he was not to start till nine,
I cannot say. He even routed me from under his pillow at f