was hurled against the sharp edge of a chair, cutting his head open
badly, and his mother came to the rescue with indignation, sympathy
and bandages, whilst accepting the latter he deprecated the two
former, explaining apologetically, "It's only because my head's so
big."

He admitted in after years to having felt most terribly swamped by the
personalities of two of his brothers. The third he had more in common
with, for he was more peace-loving, and he seemed to have more time
to listen to the small boy's confidences and stories, which Donald
started to write at the age of six.

Hugh, however, was his hero--a kind of demi-god. And truly there
was something Greek about the boy--in his singular beauty of person,
coupled with his brilliant mental equipment, and above all in the
nothing less than Spartan methods with which, in spite of a highly
sensitive temperament, he set himself to overcome his handicap of
a naturally delicate physique and a bad head for heights. He turned
himself out quite an athlete, and actually cured his bad head by a
course of walking on giddy heights, preferably roofs--the parapet of
the tall four-storied house the children lived in being a favourite
training ground.

Donald was the apple of his eye, and he was quick to note a certain
lack of vitality about the little boy--especially when he was growing
fast--and a certain natural timidity. His letters from school are full
of messages to and instructions concerning Donald's physical training,
and from Sandhurst he would long to "run over and see after his
boxing." He called him Don Diego, a name that suited the rather
stately little fellow, and he used to fear sometimes that Donald