Before he died, he sent for the officer who had befriended him, and supplemented, or rather corrected, some of the information contained in his attestation paper. He lived in Dumbarton, not Renfrewshire. He was just sixteen. He was not--this confession cost him a great effort--a full-blown "holder-on" at all; only an apprentice. His father was "weel kent" in the town of Dumbarton, being a chief engineer, employed by a great firm of shipbuilders to extend new machinery on trial trips. Needless to say, he made a great fight. But though his heart was big enough, his body was too frail. As they say on the sea, he was over-engined for his beam. And so, three days later, the simple soul of Twenty-seven fifty-four Carmichael, "A" Company, was transferred, on promotion, to another company--the great Company of Happy Warriors who walk the Elysian Fields. III "_Firing parrty, one round blank_--_load_!" There is a rattle of bolts, and a dozen barrels are pointed heavenwards. The company stands rigid, except the buglers, who are beginning to finger their instruments. "_Fire!_" There is a crackling volley, and the pipes break into a brief, sobbing wail. Wayfarers upon the road below look up curiously. One or two young females with perambulators come hurrying across the grass, exhorting apathetic babies to sit up and admire the pretty funeral. Twice more the rifles ring out. The pipes cease their wailing, and there is an expectant silence. The drum-major crooks his little finger, and eight bugles come to the "ready." Then "Last Post," the requiem of every soldier of the King, swells out, sweet and true. The echoes lose themselves among the dripping pines. The chaplain closes his book, takes off his spectacles, and departs. Old Carmichael permits himself one brief look into his son's grave, resumes his crape-bound tall hat, and turns heavily away. He finds Captain Blaikie's hand waiting for him. He grips it, and says-- "Weel, the laddie has had a grand sojer's funeral. His mother will be pleased to hear that." He passes on, and shakes hands with the platoon sergeant and one or two of Peter's cronies. He declines an invitation to the Sergeants' Mess. "I hae a trial-trup the morn," he explains. "I must be steppin'. God keep ye all, brave lads!" The old gentleman sets off down the station road. The company falls in, and we march back to barracks, leaving Wee Pe'er--the first name on our Roll of Honour--alone in his glory beneath the Hampshire pines. XIII CONCERT PITCH We have only two topics of conversation now--the date of our departure, and our destination. Both are wrapped in mystery so profound that our range of speculation is practically unlimited.