It was on the day before a great review of soldiers at the nearest town that Hugh John Smith first became a soldier and a general. His father’s house was connected by a short driveway with a great main road along which king and beggar had for more than a thousand years gone to and from the town.

Hugh John loved the wide road, and every day he ran down the driveway and looked through the bars of the gate to see who was passing. It was a large white gate of strong wood, lovely to swing on, if by chance it was left unfastened. It would shut of itself, and you had only to push it open, jump on, and ride all the way back, while the gate swung into place.

On the great day when Hugh John became a soldier, he had been digging all the morning in the sand hole. He had on his red coat, which was his pride, and he was taking a fort protected by high walls of sand. He shouted “Boom!” when he fired off his cannon, and “Bang, whack!” when he knocked down the walls that he had so carefully patted into shape.

Suddenly there came a sound which always made the heart of Hugh John beat fast. It was the sound of the drum. He had only time to make a dash for his soldier’s cap, gird on his sword with the gold hilt, and fly. As he ran down the driveway, the sound of the fifes grew louder and louder. It was at this point that Hugh John had a great struggle with himself. His brother and sister were playing under an elm tree on the front lawn. He could not bear that they should miss the soldiers. But then, if he went back, the troops might be past before he reached the gate.

“I must see the soldiers. I must—I must!” he cried.

But in his heart a little voice kept saying, “It is mean to go off without telling your brother and sister.”

“I can’t be mean! I won’t be mean!” thought Hugh John. And so he ran back with all his might, and with a warning cry called the younger children to follow. Then with legs that passed each other so quickly that they could hardly be seen, Hugh John fairly flung himself towards the white gate. The gate was open, and with a wild cry he sprang through and stood on the roadside just as the troops came into view.

The first who passed were soldiers in a dark uniform. No one cast a glance at Hugh John. He stood with his drawn sword, giving the salute as each company went by. Then came red coats and brass bands. Hugh John saluted them all. No one paid the least attention to him. He did not, indeed, expect any one to notice him. He was only a small dusty boy with a sword too big for him, standing under the shadow of the elms. But he saluted every one of them as they swung past, dust-choked and thirsty.

At last came the Scottish bagpipes. Hugh John crossed the road, and then he was nearer to the soldiers. Swinging step, waving plumes, all in review order, came on the famous regiment. They passed by, and the sound of the pipes soon grew faint in the distance. Then came more companies of soldiers and more and more. And ever the sword of Hugh John flashed to the salute, and his small arm grew weary as it rose and fell.

Then happened the most astonishing thing in the world. It was the greatest event in Hugh John’s life. There came to his ear a new sound, the clatter of horses’ hoofs. A bugle rang out, and Hugh John’s eyes watched the noble grey horses come tramping along as if proud of their riders. He stood more erect than ever.

On they came, a fine young officer at their head. He sat erect on a noble horse, leading one of the finest troops of horsemen in the world. He saw the small dusty boy in his red coat standing by the roadside, and he marked his pale face and his erect bearing. Hugh John had seen soldiers before, but never any so fine as these. He could hardly lift his sword, but his hand was steady and he went through the beautiful movements of the military salute with order and precision.

The young officer smiled and raised his own sword in response, as if Hugh John had been one of his own troopers. The boy’s heart stood still. Could this thing be? A real soldier had saluted him. But there was something more wonderful yet to come. The officer turned in his saddle.

“Attention, men. Draw swords!” he cried, and his voice rang like a trumpet.

There came a glitter of steel as the swords flashed into line. The horses tossed their heads at the stirring sound. “Eyes right! Carry swords!” came again the sharp command. And every blade made a circle of glittering light as it rose to the salute. Tears welled up in Hugh John’s eyes as he stood there in the pride of the honor done to him. He had been treated as a real soldier by the greatest soldier there. He was no longer a little dusty boy. Now he was a soldier indeed.

“Eyes front! Slope swords!” rang the words once more. The regiment passed by, and only the far drum beats came back as Hugh John stood silent under the elm tree. When his father rode up on his way home, he asked the boy what he was doing there.

Hugh John wanted to laugh, but the tears ran down his cheeks. “I’m not hurt, father,” he said, “I’m not crying. It was only that the Scots Greys saluted me. But I’m not crying, I’m not indeed!” Then the stern man gathered the great soldier up and set him across his saddle. He was alone, for the other children had gone to their play. And thus rode our hero home—Hugh John Smith no more, General Napoleon he called himself now.

Late that night Hugh John stole down the hushed driveway, his bare feet pattering through the dust which the dew was making cool. He stood again by the roadside where he had seen the troops march by. Then clasping his hands he made a solemn vow.

“The Scots Greys saluted me. Never, never, so long as I live, will I be mean again!”—Samuel R. Crockett.

From “Sir Toady Lion,” by special permission of the Author.