th your foot!' he
said petulantly, as he turned into the Park. 'Let's curse God and die.'

'Sentries are forbidden to pay unauthorised compliments. By Jove, there
are the Guards!'

Dick's figure straightened. 'Let's get near 'em. Let's go in and look.
Let's get on the grass and run. I can smell the trees.'

'Mind the low railing. That's all right!' Torpenhow kicked out a tuft
of grass with his heel. 'Smell that,' he said. 'Isn't it good?' Dick
sniffed luxuriously. 'Now pick up your feet and run.' They approached
as near to the regiment as was possible. The clank of bayonets being
unfixed made Dick's nostrils quiver.

'Let's get nearer. They're in column, aren't they?'

'Yes. How did you know?'

'Felt it. Oh, my men!--my beautiful men!' He edged forward as though he
could see. 'I could draw those chaps once. Who'll draw 'em now?'

'They'll move off in a minute. Don't jump when the band begins.'

'Huh! I'm not a new charger. It's the silences that hurt. Nearer,
Torp!--nearer! Oh, my God, what wouldn't I give to see 'em for a
minute!--one half-minute!'

He could hear the armed life almost within reach of him, could hear the
slings tighten across the bandsman's chest as he heaved the big drum
from the ground.

'Sticks crossed above his head,' whispered Torpenhow.

'I know. I know! Who should know if I don't? H'sh!'

The drum-sticks fell with a boom, and the men swung forward to the crash
of the band. Dick felt the wind of the massed movement in his face,
heard the maddening tramp of feet and the friction of the pouches on the
belts. The big drum pounded out the tune. It was a music-hall refrain
that made a perfect quickstep--

He must be a man of decent height,
He must be a man of weight,
He must come home on a Saturday night
In a thoroughly sober state;
He must know how to love me,
And he must know how to kiss;
And if he's enough to keep us both
I can't refuse him bliss.

'What's the matter?' said Torpenhow, as he saw Dick's head fall when the
last of the regiment had departed.

'Nothing. I feel a little bit out of the running,--that's all. Torp,
take me back. Why did you bring me out?'

CHAPTER XII

There were three friends that buried the fourth,
The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes
And they went south and east, and north,--
The strong man fights, but the sick man dies.

There were three friends that spoke of the de