conspicuously in the centre of his small waistcoat, and this button was
the subject of his theme.

'My father he rushed forward--"Come on, men; we'll save the old colours!"
And they shouted "Hurrah!" as they made after him. There were guns going,
and shells flying, and swords flashing and hacking away, and the enemy
poured on with fiery red faces and gnashing teeth! My father drew his
sword--and no one could stand against him, no one! He cut and he slashed,
and heads and arms and legs rolled off as quick as lightning, one after
the other. He got up to the colours, and with a shout he plunged his
sword right through the enemy's body that had stolen them! The enemy fell
stone dead. My father seized the colours and looked round. He was alone!
The other soldiers had been beaten back. But was he in a funk? No; he
gave a loud "Hurrah!" picked up his sword, and fought his way back, the
enemy hard after him. It was a race for life, and he ran backwards the
whole way; he wasn't going to turn his back to the enemy. He pressed on,
shouting "Hurrah!" till he got to his own side again, and then he reached
his colonel.

'"Captain dead, sir I've got the colours!" He saluted as he said it, and
then dropped dead himself at the colonel's feet, the blood gushing out
of his heart, and over his clothes, and over this button!'

The little orator paused as he sank his voice to a tragic whisper,
then raising it again, he added triumphantly, 'And thirty bullets and
six swords had gone through my father's body! That was something like
a soldier!'

'Oh, I say!' murmured a small sceptic from the crowd, 'it was twenty
bullets last time; make it fifty, Teddy!'