The Argosy — page 366: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Lady Valeria. 345 turban of a mounted ressaldar and a glimpse of his green tunic were visible for one instant, and then the peephole closed. Tramp, tramp, they all passed by. Glimpses of helmets, breastplates, horses’ ears— these were cavalry, then—and Sampson would be on foot. Another chance, and he desperately wedged himself in. Infantry now, he could see. ‘‘Is this the Royal Denbigh? Do oblige me by telling me,” he appealed to his neighbours. ‘‘No; Marines. Bravo, Jollies! Hooray,” and the helmets passed. ‘‘ They’re coming now, though. Look out!” ‘‘QOh, do let me in to see, only for a moment!” he cried, regardless of appearances. A well-dressed man in front turned round. ‘‘ Have yow anyone there ?” heasked, good-naturedly, trying to turn edgeways and make a place for him. ‘‘My son’s there! He’s been wounded, and I sha’n’t see him!” cried the old man, recklessly. ‘‘ Let him in,” the gentleman begged of those sur- rounding, himself setting the example. ‘‘ Let him see his son pass.” “This way, come along!” and two or three strong arms promptly seized and hauled him forward, till he found himself the centre of an amiable group round the base of a lamp-post, one or two having obligingly swarmed up higher to make room for him. ‘“ Now, then! Which is he? ‘This one?” as Sir Evelyn Wood at the head of the Infantry Brigade rode into view. ‘‘Not there. Nor there,” as the Seaforth Highlanders in white helmets and tartan trews marched by. ‘‘ He’s in the Royal Denbigh;” and eager to prove that it was under mo false pretence he came there, he managed to extricate the Prctorzal from his pocket and display it with a result uncontemplated by him. ‘Paramount, is it? ‘Then look out! Here they are! Goit, Den- bigh! Hooray! Hooray! Which of them is it?” ‘There, there !” pointing excitedly to a sunburnt face and an arm ina sling. ‘‘ Then go it, Paramount! Well done, Sampson! Three cheers for Para- mount of Kassassin! Allright, Tel-el-Kebir! There. Let him see you,” and willy-nilly up the post, despite protestations and appeals, he was shoved, just as Sampson, catching his name, raised a pair of wor - dering eyes to behold his father up aloft, waving the Pexnay Pictorial frantically and shouting with the best. ‘Bravo, Denbighs! Hooray! Hooray !” Then he dropped to his feet in confusion, ‘‘ Thank you, thank you, my dear boys. I must get home now. Will you help mee And take this »—emptying his pockets of all their loose silver — ‘‘ to drink Corporal Paramount’s health.” Helped by one and another he found himself on the outskirts of the throng, all a tremble, his hat crushed, his clothes twisted and rumpled, and his old eyes full of tears, tremulously murmuring: “‘ God bless the lad! If poor Emmie could have lived to see this! Now I must go home and say nothing more about it.” But Fate was too many for him. A very different party of spectators had been watching the show from a window in a hotel overlooking Trafalgar Square. <A group of pretty women, some very fine gentlemen indeed, and a general officer CoOnniclboooks (CO)