Then it was that the other boys never got Billy on a holiday. When Victoria Day came the soldiers always went "into camp" for three days, strict military discipline reigned, and Billy must be with his company. When Dominion Day arrived the regiment always visited some distant city to assist in some important patriotic celebration. Thanksgiving Day always found them in the thick of annual drill, and there was sure to be a "sham battle" at which poor Billy had to toot the commands, his eyes blinking and the nerves chasing themselves up and down his back, while the blank cartridges peppered away harmlessly, and the field-pieces roared innocently past his ears. "The boys" usually came with throngs of citizens to see the "sham fights." They would range themselves on a slope of hills, as near as possible to the "battlefield," and often above the bellowing guns, above the colonel's command, above his own shrill bugle calls, Billy could hear Bert Hooper and Tommy McLean egging him on, sometimes with jeers, sometimes with admiration, telling him to "Look up plucky now, Billy, and don't stop your ears with your fingers!" He used to be astonished at himself that he cared so little whether they teased or cheered. He seemed to care for nothing in all the world but the Colonel's voice and his bugle. Then the day came when he knew there was something greater than the colonel to be obeyed, something dearer than his bugle to be proud of. For many weeks the newspapers had teemed with little else but news of the South African War. Nothing was talked of in all Canada, from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean, but the battles, the hardships, the privations, of the gallant British regiments in the far-off enemy's country. Then came the cry, wrung from England's heart to her colonies, "Come over and help us!" Canada, Australia, New Zealand, sprang to their feet like obedient children, ready and anxious to fight and die for their mother at her first call. Billy and his father faced each other--one was sixteen, the other forty. They did not stand looking at each other as father and son, but as man and man. "Billy," said his father, "you don't remember your mother; she died while you were still a baby. If she were living, I would not hint of this to you, but--_I_ go to South Africa with the very first Canadian contingent. You are the best bugler in Canada. What do _you_ want to do?" For an instant Billy was speechless. His nerves shook with a boy's first fear of battle. His old gun-shyness had him in its grip. Then his heart swelled with the pride aroused by his father's words; he raised his head, his chin, his eyes, and suddenly his look caught a picture hanging in its deep gold frame on the wall. It was a picture of a little old gray-haired woman--a sad-faced old woman dressed in black and wearing a widow's cap. It was a picture of Queen Victoria. Then Billy's voice came.