After breakfast he and Jack had a long talk, and it was quite clear that the sergeant was heart and soul in his profession, and thought there was no other to equal it. Jack had a great dread of being a drag and an expense to his mother. He felt certain that Mr Phogg would give him a reference that would spoil his chance of getting employment--at least anything better than an errand boy’s or a porter’s place. A hundred times rather than that he would be a soldier; that was, at any rate, an honourable profession. During the day he wandered about the barracks and had a good look at the guard, particularly admiring the trumpeter, a boy of about his own age, who from time to time, arrayed in his gay Lancer uniform, came forth and sounded different calls. When the regiment returned at night he heard the men laughing and joking and relating much that had passed on the march up to London and during their progress through the crowded Metropolis; of the princes, lords, and other celebrated people they had seen; and, lastly, how well her Majesty and the Prince Consort looked. As he again turned in on the sergeant’s sofa his mind was made up. He would be a soldier, and his regiment should be the gallant ‘Death or Glory Boys.’ In the morning he announced his intention to the sergeant while he was enjoying his morning smoke. ‘Well, Jack,’ he said, ‘you might do worse. If you’ve quite made up your mind, come with me.’ Together they crossed the barrack square, passing on their way the young trumpeter whom Jack had so much admired. ‘Where’s the major, Will?’ asked Barrymore. ‘In his quarters, I think, sergeant.’ ‘Right.’ They went on to a room near the band-quarters, where they found a rather stout, shortish man, busy at a table copying out music. ‘Hallo, Bob, what’s the trouble?’ he asked, looking up. ‘A recruit, Ted.’ ‘Ah, that’s good; I want a real smart lad in the trumpets, one who will take an interest in his work and take up second cornet in the band.’ ‘I’ve got the very article, Ted; look at him,’ and the sergeant gave Jack a smack on the back. Jack, thus brought into prominence, coloured up as he stood in the presence of the two non-commissioned officers, for Ted Joyce was the trumpet-major. Trumpet-major Joyce looked keenly at Jack. ‘How old are you?’ he asked. ‘Sixteen and a half, sir.’ ‘Sir no one here but the officers,’ said the trumpet-major, who was a pleasant, rather fussy little man. ‘Know anything about music?’ he asked. ‘Yes, sir--I mean’---- and Jack paused. ‘Call me major,’ said the trumpet-major. ‘Yes, major; I can play the piano pretty well.’ ‘No pianos in the band,’ said the trumpet-major with a smile; ‘but if you can read well that’s something. You can’t beat time or rhythm into some of my trumpeters. Your lips look all right too; if you can use your tongue well I can make a good trumpeter of you.’