"I don't play, though." "Are you a decent aerial yachtsman?" "I'm a savage," cried the boy humbly, but Sydney had set him quite at ease. "A savage?" "I'm from the province of Yukon." "Where on earth is that?" "In arctic Canada. My old man has cattle." "In the Arctic?" "Yes, a six months' day, and a six months' night. I tell you it's an awful thing for a cowpuncher to face you fellows." "A what?" "Cowboy." "But I thought that cowboys and dodos and mammoths and all those things were extinct--swept away in the nineteenth century. A real live cowboy?" The lad blushed. "I was raised in the saddle, and it's a three-hundred-mile ride across the ranche." "But cows!" The boy laughed at Sydney now. "No, reindeer, and musk oxen. We have three hundred thousand head of stock, besides raising pelts." "What are pelts?" "Silver fox skins, sea otter, beaver, musquash." The boy was straining every fibre of his being to win acceptance from this courtly man of the town. "What a jolly outdoor life," said Sydney; "tell me more, do you----" A faint sound of spurs arrested the trooper in mid speech. He instantly jammed on his casque and sprang sharp to "attention." In the curtained doorway opposite an officer appeared in golden armour; Sydney stood forward at the salute. "A recruit, sir." The boy went trembling and presented his letter. "Hum--Mr. Browne?" The boy blushed. "We have your credentials, Trooper Browne, which are approved." He glanced over the letter. "I see that you passed with honours in horsemanship at the school of arms. Report at the Mess dinner to take the oath, after which you will be presented when her Majesty permits. Trooper Sydney, take charge of this gentleman." As the Adjutant passed on towards the State apartments, a sergeant of the corps came running down the stairs, but stood aghast at the sight of his officer, and tried to conceal a large green cardboard box. "Sergeant Dymoke," the Adjutant gave signs of impatience; "carrying parcels here?" Dymoke grinned uneasily, dropping the box as he came to the salute. "Forgive the Queen's champion, sir, for bearing the Queen's favours." Now the Dymoke has from time immemorial in England a vested right of appearing at the Coronation mounted and clad in plate armour, to cast his gauntlet on the floor of Westminster Hall, and there challenge all comers to joust _à l'entrance_ on behalf of his sovereign's right to the throne of this kingdom. "I don't see," said the Adjutant, suavely, "what the Queen's champion has to do with that box of gloves." "I intercepted these, sir," said Dymoke, "at the door of the private rooms; they are a gross of white gloves for her Majesty. I want to wear my Lady's favour to-morrow, and this is the first thing I've managed to steal for months." "Pardon, sir," said Lord Sydney, saluting; "but though we can't all wear boiler plate like Dymoke, every trooper in the Guard wants to bear our Lady's favour."