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“Well, good-bye, my brave scout. I must mention your name in my despatches to the War Office.”

H. O. interrupted him to say, “His name’s Oswald Cecil Bastable, and mine is Horace Octavius.” I wish H. O. would learn to hold his tongue. No one ever knows Oswald was christened Cecil as well, if he can possibly help it. You didn’t know it till now.

“Mr. Oswald Bastable,” the Colonel went on–he had the decency not to take any notice of the “Cecil”–“you would be a credit to any regiment. No doubt the War Office will reward you properly for what you have done for your country. But meantime, perhaps, you’ll accept five shillings from a grateful comrade-in-arms.”

Oswald felt heart-feltly sorry to wound the good Colonel’s feelings, but he had to remark that he had only done his duty, and he was sure no British scout would take five bob for doing that. “And besides,” he said, with that feeling of justice which is part of his young character, “it was the others just as much as me.”

“Your sentiments, sir,” said the Colonel, who was one of the politest and most discerning colonels I ever saw, “your sentiments do you honor. But, Bastables all, and–and non-Bastables” (he couldn’t remember Foulkes; it’s not such an interesting name as Bastable, of course), “at least you’ll accept a soldier’s pay?”

“Lucky to touch it, a shilling a day!” Alice and Denny said together. And the Cocked-Hatted Man said something about knowing your own mind and knowing your own Kipling.

“A soldier,” said the Colonel, “would certainly be lucky to touch it. You see there are deductions for rations. Five shillings is exactly right, deducting twopence each for six teas.”

This seemed cheap for the three cups of tea and the three eggs and all the strawberry-jam and bread-and-butter Oswald had had, as well as what the others ate, and Lady’s and Pincher’s teas, but I suppose soldiers get things cheaper than civilians, which is only right.

Oswald took the five shillings then, there being no longer any scruples why he should not.

Just as we had parted from the brave Colonel and the rest we saw a bicycle coming. It was Albert’s uncle. He got off and said:

“What on earth have you been up to? What were you doing with those volunteers?”

We told him the wild adventures of the day, and he listened, and then he said he would withdraw the word volunteers if we liked.

But the seeds of doubt were sown in the breast of Oswald. He was now almost sure that we had made jolly fools of ourselves without a moment’s pause throughout the whole of this eventful day. He said nothing at the time, but after supper he had it out with Albert’s uncle about the word which had been withdrawn.

Albert’s uncle said, of course, no one could be sure that the dragon’s teeth hadn’t come up in the good old-fashioned way, but that, on the other hand, it was barely possible that both the British and the enemy were only volunteers having a field-day or sham fight, and he rather thought the Cocked-Hatted Man was not a general, but a doctor. And the man with a red pennon carried behind him might have been the umpire.

Oswald never told the others a word of this. Their young breasts were all panting with joy because they had saved their country; and it would have been but heartless unkindness to show them how silly they had been. Besides, Oswald felt he was much too old to have been so taken in–if he had been. Besides, Albert’s uncle did say that no one could be sure about the dragon’s teeth.

The thing that makes Oswald feel most that, perhaps, the whole thing was a beastly sell was that we didn’t see any wounded. But he tries not to think of this. And if he goes into the army when he grows up, he will not go quite green. He has had experience of the arts of war and the tented field. And a real colonel has called him “Comrade-in-Arms,” which is exactly what Lord Roberts called his own soldiers when he wrote home about them.