"I allowed that there wasn't in my case. Then I told him about Troop Sergeant Major Hollis, who fought at Waterloo. 'Yes,' he said, 'yours is an old name in the city, older than mine, I dare say.' 'Well,' I said, 'according to Bazeley's Annals there was a William Hollis who was mayor of the borough in the year of the Spanish Armada.' 'Good for you, Auntie,' he said, chaffing-like; he was a rare one for chaff. 'One up to you. Then,' he said, 'there was William Hollis who was "some" poet in the eighteenth century, who wrote the famous romantic poem, "The Love Lorn Lady of Corfield." Still,' he said, 'these things don't explain you dragging your old bones to rot out here.' 'They do in a way, though,' I said. 'When we come up against a big thing it isn't us that really matters, it's what's at the back of us. I used to set in my old garden on The Rise,' I said, 'in those early days when those dirty dogs opposite was just beginning to wipe their feet on Europe. And I said to myself, Bill Hollis, how would _you_ like it if they broke through the fence into your garden, trampling your young seeds and goose-stepping all over your roses and your tulips. And I tell you, Jim--we got to be very familiar those last few weeks--it used to make me fair mad to read in the _Tribune_ what they'd done ... Louvain one time ... Termondy another ... et cetera.... And I kept on settin' there day after day, in my old garden on the top o' The Rise, saying to myself, Hollis, it's no use, me lad, you're going into this. You've failed in every bloody thing so far, and if you take on this you'll not be man enough to stick it out. War isn't thinking, it's doing, and you've never been a doer, you've not. Then I read in the _Tribune_ one morning that they'd got Antwerp and I said to myself, I can't stand this no more. And I went right away to the Duke of Wellington and had a liquor up--but only a mild one, you know--and then round the corner to the Recruiting Office and gave my age as thirty-six and here I am admiring this bleeding sunset with the eye of an artist.' "That made him laugh some more. 'Well, Auntie,' he said, 'I'm very proud to have known you and I hope you'll do me the honor of accepting this as a keepsake.' He unbuttoned his greatcoat and took this old watch out of his tunic." The Corporal paused an instant in his story to follow the example of his friend. He produced an old-fashioned gold hunting watch, with J. T. in monogram at the back, and handed it to Melia. "It's a rare good one, Mother," the Corporal's voice was very low, "solid gold." He opened the lid and showed her the inscription: To John Torrington, Esquire, from a Humble Admirer of His Genius, 1859.