hey happened, and
you will unconsciously reveal what sort of scoundrelly characters
you and your friends were. And when you get to the Gallipoli part,
well, you can give us chiefly your thoughts, for Gallipoli, as far
as dramatic incident is concerned, is well able to shift for
itself."

Little wonder that I was fascinated to read Rupert's final
manuscript. And, when I had finished the last words, I
announced aloud a weighty decision: "We must have a Prologue,
Rupert,"--though, to be sure, my study was empty at the time--"and
it must give pictures of what your three heroes were like, when they
were small, abominable boys."

And thereafter I busied myself in seeking information of the early
childhood of Rupert Ray, Archibald Pennybet, and Edgar Gray Doe. Not
without misgiving do I offer the result of these researches, for I
fear all the time lest my self-conscious hand should profane
Rupert's artless narrative.

In the year that the Colonel died he took little Rupert to see the
swallows fly away. Colonel Ray was a stately, grey-bearded
grandfather; and Rupert his flushed and blue-eyed grandson of six
years old; and the two stood side by side and watched. Behind them
lay the French town, Boulogne; beside them went the waters of the
French river, the Liane. Suddenly Rupert, who had kept his blue eyes
on a sky but little bluer, cried out excitedly: "There they are!"
For him at that moment the most interesting thing in the world was
the flight of swallows overhead. The Colonel, also, looked at the
birds till they were out of sight, and then, after keeping silence
awhile, uttered a remark which was rather sent in pursuit of the
birds than addressed to his young companion. "I shall not see the
swallows again," he said.

Colonel Rupert Ray was no ordinary person. He was one of those of
whom tales are told; and such people are never ordinary. The most
treasured of these tales is the story of the swallows; and it goes
on to tell, as you would expect, how the Colonel died that year,
before the swallows came flying north and home again. He was buried,
while little Rupert and Rupert's mother looked on, in that untidy
corner of the Boulogne Cemetery, where many another English half-pay
officer had been laid before him.

Of course the burial of the Colonel was very sad for Rupert; but he
soon forgot it all in the excitement of preparing for the journey
back to London. The Colonel, you see, had known that his old life
would br