upward, a fact which at once struck the observant and practised eye of
Major John Decies, sometime champion fencer.

"Who's been teaching you fencing?" he asked.

"What ith 'fenthing'? Let'th have a fight," replied the boy.

"Stick me here, Dam," invited the Major, seating himself and
indicating the position of the heart. "Bet you can't."

The boy lunged, straight, true, gracefully, straightening all his
limbs except his right leg, rigidly, strongly, and the "sword" bent
upward from the spot on which the man's finger had just rested.

"Gad! Who _has_ taught you to lunge? I shall have a bruise there, and
perhaps--live. Who's behind all this, young fella? Who taught you to
stand so, and to lunge? Ochterlonie Sahib or Daddy?"

"Nobody. What is 'lunge'? Will you buy me a little baby-camel to play
with and teach tricks? Perhaps it would sit up and beg. Do camelth lay
eggth? Chucko does. Millions and lakhs. You get a thword, too, and
we'll fight every day. Yeth. All day long----"

"Good morning, Sir," said Nurse Beaton, bustling into the verandah
from the nursery. "He's as mad as ever on swords and fighting, you
see. It's a soldier he'll be, the lamb. He's taken to making that
black orderly pull out his sword when he's in uniform. Makes him wave
and jab it about. Gives me the creeps--with his black face and white
eyes and all. You won't _encourage_ the child at it, will you, Sir?
And his poor Mother the gentlest soul that ever stepped. Swords! Where