"Well, sir, it appears that the very next day the trumpeter marched
into Helston, and got a carpenter there to turn him a pair of
box-wood drum-sticks for the boy. And this was the beginning of one
of the most curious friendships you ever heard tell of. Nothing
delighted the pair more than to borrow a boat off my father and pull
out to the rocks where the _Primrose_ and the _Despatch_ had struck
and sunk; and on still days 'twas pretty to hear them out there off
the Manacles, the drummer playing his tattoo--for they always took
their music with them--and the trumpeter practising calls, and making
his trumpet speak like an angel. But if the weather turned roughish,
they'd be walking together and talking; leastwise, the youngster
listened while the other discoursed about Sir John's campaign in
Spain and Portugal, telling how each little skirmish befell; and of
Sir John himself, and General Baird and General Paget, and Colonel
Vivian, his own commanding officer, and what kind of men they were;
and of the last bloody stand-up at Corunna, and so forth, as if
neither could have enough.

"But all this had to come to an end in the late summer; for the boy,
John Christian, being now well and strong again, must go up to
Plymouth to report himself. 'Twas his own wish (for I believe King
George had forgotten all about him), but his friend wouldn't hold him
back. As for the trumpeter, my father had made an arrangement to
take him on as a lodger as soon as the boy left; and on the morning
fixed for the start, he was up at the door here by five o'clock, with
his trumpet slung by his side, and all the rest of his kit in a small
valise. A Monday morning it was, and after breakfast he had fixed to
walk with the boy some way on the road towards Helston, where the
coach started. My father left them at breakfast together, and went
out to meat the pig, and do a few odd morning jobs of that sort.