Hark to 'em ahead there!" The _cortege_, in fact, was attracting general attention.

Folks on the pavement halted to watch and grin as we went by: one or two, catching sight of familiar faces within the coaches, waved their handkerchiefs or shouted back salutations: and as we crawled out of Old Town Street and past St.Andrew's Church a small crowd raised three cheers for us.

And still above it the cornet blared and the mourners' voices rose uproarious: "His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair; And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melanchol--ol--y-- For Tom is gone aloft." "Bill couldn't sing a note," Mr.Jope murmured: "but as you say, sir--Would you oblige us again ?" Again the Latin was repeated, and he swung round upon me.

"Think of that, now! Be you a scholar, hey ?--read, write and cipher?
How would you spell 'sojer' for instance ?" The question knocked the wind out of me, and I felt my face whitening under the clergyman's eyes.
"Soldier--S.O.L.D.I.E.R," I managed to answer, but scarce above a whisper.
"Very good: now make a rhyme to it." "I--please, sir, I don't know any rhymes." "Well, that's honest, anyway.

Now I'll tell you why I asked." He turned and addressed Mr.Whitmore.