than he always called him Mr. Washington, while even that little chit of a Polly Johnston called me Tom to my face, and laughed at me when I assumed an air of injured dignity. I think it was the fact that my temper was so the opposite of his own which drew him to me, and as for myself, I was proud to have such a friend, and of the chance to march with him again over the mountains against the French.

He knew well how to humor me, and walked beside me, saying nothing. I glanced at his face, half shamed of my petulance, and I saw that he was no longer smiling. His lips were closed in that firm straight line which I had already seen once or twice, and which during years of trial became habitual to him. My own petty anger vanished at the sight.

"I have not yet thanked you, Colonel Washington," I said at last, "for securing me my appointment. I was eating my heart out to make the campaign, but saw no way of doing so until your message reached me."

"Why, Tom," he laughed, "you were the first of whom I thought when General Braddock gave me leave to fill some of the vacancies. Did you think I had so soon forgot the one who saved my life at Fort Necessity?"

I opened my mouth to protest, but he silenced me with a gesture.

"I can see it as though it were here before us," he continued. "The French and Indians on the knoll yonder, my own men kneeling in the trenches, almost waist-deep in water, trying in vain to keep their powder dry; here and there a wounded man lying in the mud and cursing, the rain and mist over it all, and the night coming on. And then, suddenly, the rush of Indians at our back, and over the breastwork. I had my pistol in my hand, you remember, Tom, but the powder flashed in the pan, and the foremost of the savages was upon me. I saw his tomahawk in the air, and I remember wondering who would best command when I was dead. But your aim was true and your powder dry, and when the tomahawk fell, it fell harmless, with its owner upon it."

For a moment neither of us spoke. My eyes were wet at thought of the scene which I so well remembered, and when I turned to him, I saw that he was still brooding over this defeat, which had rankled as a poisoned arrow in his breast ever since that melancholy morning we had marched away from the Great Meadows with the French on either side and the Indians looting the baggage in the rear. As we reached my quarters, we turned by a common impulse and continued onward through the darkness.

"This expedition must be more fortunate," he said at last, as though in answer to his own thought. "A thousand regulars, as many more provincials, guns, and every equipage,—yes, it is large enough and strong enough, unless"—

"Unless?" I questioned, as he paused.

"Unless we walk headlong to our own destruction," he said. "But no, I won't believe it. The general has been bred in the Coldstreams and knows nothing of frontier fighting. But he is a brave man, an honest man, and he will learn. Small wonder he believes in discipline after serving half a century in such a regiment. Have you ever heard the story of their fight at Fontenoy, ten years since, when they lost two hundred and forty men? I heard it three nights ago at the general's table, and 't was enough to make a man weep for very pity that such valor should count for naught."

"Tell it me," I cried, for if there is one thing I love above all others,—yea, even yet, when I must sit useless by,—it is the tale of brave deeds nobly done.

"'T was on the eleventh day of May, seventeen forty-five," he said, "that the English and the Dutch met the French, who were under Marshal Saxe. Louis the Fifteenth himself was on the field, with the Grand Dauphin by his side and a throng of courtiers about him, for he knew how much depended on the issue of this battle. A redoubt, held by the famous Guards, bristling with cannon, covered the French position. The Dutch, appalled at the task before them, refused to advance, but his Grace of Cumberland, who commanded the English, rose equal to the moment. He formed his troops in column, the Coldstreams at its head, and gave the word for the assault. The batteries thundered, the redoubt was crowned with flame, but the Coldstreams turned neither to the right nor left. Straight on they marched,—to annihilation, as it seemed,—reforming as they went, over hill and gully, as steadily as on parade. At last they reached their goal, and an instant's silence fell upon the field as they faced the French. The English officers raised their hats to their adversaries, who returned the salute as though they were at Versailles, not looking in the eyes of death.

"'Gentlemen of the French Guard,' cried Lord Charles Hay, 'fire, if you please.'

"'Impossible, monsieur,' cried the Count of Hauteroche; 'the French
Guards never fire first. Pray, fire yourselves.'

"The order was given, and the French ranks fell as grain before the sickle. They gave way, the Coldstreams advancing in perfect order, firing volley after volley. The officers, with their rattans, turned the men's muskets to the right or left, as need demanded. Nothing could stop that terrible approach, resistless as a whirlwind, and French and Swiss broke themselves against it, only to be dashed back as spray from a rocky coast. Regiment after regiment was repulsed, and the Coldstreams still advanced. Saxe thought the battle lost, and begged the king and the dauphin to flee while time permitted. At the last desperate moment, he rallied the artillery and all the forces of his army for a final effort. The artillery was massed before the English, and they had none to answer it. The king himself led the charge against their flanks, which the Dutch should have protected. But the Dutch preferred to remain safely in the rear. The Coldstreams stood their ground, reforming their ranks with perfect coolness, until Cumberland saw it were madness to remain, and ordered the retreat. And it was more glorious than the advance. With only half their number on their feet, they faced about, without disorder, their ranks steady and unwavering, and moved off sullenly and slowly, as though ready at any moment to turn again and rend the ranks of the victors. It was a deed to match Thermopylae."

I lifted my hat from my head, and my lips were trembling.

"I salute them," I said. "'T was well done. And was General Braddock present on that day?"

"He commanded one battalion of the regiment. It was for his gallantry there that he was promoted to the senior majorship."

"I shall not forget it." And then I added, "Perhaps the story you have told me will give me greater patience with our drill-master."

"I trust so, at least," said Washington, with a smile; "else I fear there will be little peace for you in the army. I was affected by the story, Tom, no less than you have been, but after I had left the hall, with its glamour of lights and gold lace and brilliant uniforms, I wondered if this discipline would count amid the forests of the Ohio as it did on the plains of Europe. I fancy, in the battle that is to come, there will be no question of who shall fire first, and a regiment which keeps its formation will be a fair mark for the enemy. Do you know, Tom, my great hope is that the French will send a scouting party of their Indian allies to ambush us, and that in defeating them, our commander may learn something of the tactics which he must follow to defeat the French."

As for myself, I confess I shared none of these forebodings, and welcomed the chance to turn our talk to a more cheerful subject.

"But about yourself?" I questioned. "There is much I wish to know. Until your note reached me, I had not heard a word from you since you rode away from Mount Vernon with Dinwiddie's