Uncle Arthur saw him put up a thin hand and
wipe his white little brow. Major David's plays were always intensely
real to him.
"_Not--the six hundred_," he murmured, and sank down on the window-seat,
gazing mournfully out over the square. But in a moment he was up again.
"Cannon to right of 'em," he began again, sternly. "Cannon to left of
'em----"
Uncle Arthur crept away without bidding him remember his promise. What
is a Memorial Day address beside the charge of a Light Brigade?
It was only two days after this that David's mother summoned David's
four uncles to a conference. David had no father. There was a granite
boulder up in the cemetery which ever since David was four years old--he
was ten now--had been draped once a year with a beautiful silken flag.
All the Thorndyke men had been soldiers, and David's father had died at
the front, where the Thorndyke men usually died. It was a matter of
great pride to David every year--that silken flag.
David's four uncles were all soldiers--in a way. There was Uncle
Chester; he had been breveted colonel at the close of the Civil War,
and Colonel Thorndyke he was--against his will--always called still.
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