Such is Robert Clive, a young man of twenty-five, who left his Shropshire home as the scapegrace of the family. In his home at Styche and in the grammar school of Market Drayton he acquired a most unenviable reputation—always in mischief, ready to use his fists on the slightest provocation, an idle, worthless dunce. In desperation his father packed him off to India as a book-keeper; but he has exchanged the pen for the sword, and has now found his vocation. It is he who suggested this desperate enterprise, and to-day he is about to lay the foundations of his great fame. The attack has begun. A vast multitude of besiegers is beneath the walls carrying ladders, while against the four points where the fort is weakest—the two gates and the two breaches—organized and simultaneous attacks are preparing. Huge elephants, with their foreheads armed with iron plates, are driven forward, and you expect that the gates will be smashed to matchwood by the impact of these living battering-rams. But watch! Now you see Clive directing his men to pour their fire into the elephants. They do so, and the huge beasts, stung by the bullets, turn round and trample under foot the dense masses of men behind them. The enemy has been hoist with his own petard. There is a wild rush into the north-west breach, which is blocked with yelling natives. Suddenly you hear a volley, and down go scores of the assailants. Clive has dug trenches behind the breaches, and his men are in them pouring a murderous fire on the living, struggling mass that swarms through the gap in the wall. As soon as the guns are discharged they are handed to the rear-rank men to be loaded, and others charged and primed are received in exchange. Three field-pieces now open fire, and every shot tells. After three desperate onsets the enemy is driven back. Meanwhile the south-west breach is attacked. Water fills one part of the ditch which protects it, and on this the foe has launched a raft crowded with soldiers, who are urging it towards the shattered walls. The gunners at this post fire wildly and their aim is bad. Clive springs to the gun and works it himself. In three discharges he has cleared the raft and torn it asunder. Many of its occupants are drowning in the ditch, the remainder are swimming back to the bank. The fight has now lasted an hour, and four hundred of the assailants are dead. The grand attack has failed. There is firing during the night, but when day breaks the besiegers are nowhere to be seen. They have hurriedly abandoned the town, leaving their artillery and ammunition behind them. At once India rings with the praises of Clive. Reinforced, he proceeds upon his victorious career, and the natives tremble at his name. Within the next three years, by his marvellous energy and skill, he will establish British supremacy in India.