"That's just what I'm saying," agreed Gunner Sobey; "and you'll do very well if you change hats." He stooped and picked Tadd-Bonaparte's _tricorne_ out of the dust and brushed it with the sleeve of his tunic. "Here, let's see how you look in it." He flipped off the Major's tarpaulin hat, clapped on the substitute, and fell back admiringly. "The Ogre to the life," he exclaimed; "and _with_ a wooden leg! Hurroo, boys!" Before the Major could expostulate a dozen hands had lifted him into the saddle astride the yellow horse. "But--but I don't know in the least, my friends, what you intend! I cannot ride; indeed I cannot!" "_With_ a wooden leg! The idea!" answered Gunner Sobey, cheerfully. "Never you mind, but catch hold o' the pommel. We'll see to the rest." The riders closed in and walked him forward down the hill, Gunner Sobey pressing close and supporting him, holding his wooden leg tight against the saddle-flap. The Major cast a wild look about him and saw Bugler Opie and another Gallant (Gunner Warboys--he knew all their names) lifting the half-unconscious Tadd and bearing him towards the fountain, to revive him. What was happening? Should he declare himself, here and now? The company broke into cheers as they set their horses in motion. Had they indeed recognised him? The procession was assuredly a triumph, of some sort or another. But what did they intend? From across the harbour the bells of Troy were ringing madly. The Major shut his teeth. If this were indeed the town's fashion of welcoming him, well and good! If it were a mistake--a practical joke (but why should it be either?)--he had not long to wait for his revenge. . . . Let _The Plymouth and Dock Telegraph_ narrate, in its own succinct language, what followed: