ONE OF CLIVE'S HEROES (continued 9)

At the bend the river presented a shelving beach, being at least twice as wide at this point during the rainy season as at other periods. Without hesitation Desmond ran the nose of the boat straight at the beach: she came to with a violent bump; the men tumbled out waist-deep into the water, and with shrill cries of relief scrambled ashore.

No time was lost. Waiting only to inspect their muskets, Desmond at once began the march, the band being led by the man who knew the country. Another man, a noted runner, formerly a kasid in the employment of the Nawab of the Dekkan, was sent in advance to find Surendra Nath's house, give him warning of Desmond's coming, and instruct him to have some one on the look-out for the approach of the enemy, if Diggle was not indeed already in possession of the village. The rest pushed on with all speed. The storm had cleared the air: the rain had ceased; and though it was unpleasant walking over the soppy ground, the march was much cooler than it had been earlier in the day.

Desmond longed for a hill from which to get a view of the country; but, as almost everywhere in the valley of the Ganges, it was dead flat. The party was within a quarter-mile of the village when the kasid came running back. He had found the Babu's house. From its flat roof a body of horse had been seen in the distance, nearly a coss away. Desmond at once ordered his men to double, and as they dashed into the village among the wondering people the kasid pointed out Surendra Nath's house at the far end--a small two-storied building, surrounded by a wall and approached through a rickety iron gateway. It was the first house to which the approaching horsemen would come.

A man in native dress was standing at the gate. At first Desmond did not recognize him, but as he drew nearer he saw that it was Surendra Nath himself, looking years older--weak, thin, sunken-eyed, little like the sleek well-fed Babu Desmond had last seen in Calcutta.

"Are the ladies safe?" asked Desmond, yards ahead of his men.

"Yes, sir, quite safe," replied Surendra Nath, trembling.

"Thank God for that! Go in, Babu; tell them we are here to protect them."

While speaking he had eagerly scanned the surroundings. On each side of the sodden track that did duty for a road there was a mango grove. Desmond directed Toley to take four men to one side, and Bulger four men to the other, and place themselves among the trees. When the first three files of the horsemen should have passed through, the seamen were to give the word to fire; then, taking advantage of the inevitable confusion, to rush with their men to the house. Desmond himself meanwhile, with the remaining twelve, set to work to strengthen the defences. These proceedings were watched with amazement by the villagers, who, men, women, and children, stood in groups, discussing in shrill tones the movements of these energetic strangers.

There was a small veranda to the house. This was wrenched away by main force. The posts and other parts of the woodwork were carried to the gateway and piled up as rapidly as possible to form a rough barricade. Scarcely was this task half accomplished when the clanking of weapons was heard in the distance, soon accompanied by the swashing of horses' hoofs on the drenched soil. Desmond coolly ordered his men to proceed with the work. A minute later there was a sharp discharge of musketry, followed by cries, shouts, and the sound of galloping horses. The villagers scuttled away shrieking. Immediately afterwards Bulger and Toley with their eight men sprang from cover and made a dash for the wall.

"Muskets first!" shouted Desmond.

The muskets were pitched over: then the men scrambled up, Desmond and his sepoys assisting them to get across. Almost the first to drop down into the compound was Bulger, whose hook had proved, not for the first time, of more service than a sound left arm. Once over himself, he used his hook to haul the sepoys after him, with many a vigorous "Yo heave ho!"

"All aboard, sir," he cried, when the last of the men was within the wall. "I may be wrong, but I lay my button-hook 'tis now all hands to repel boarders; and only two cutlasses among us--mine and Mr. Toley's. Howsomdever, notwithstandin', and which is all the same!"

Desmond ordered four of his men to post themselves at the barricaded gateway: the rest he divided into two parties, and stationed behind the wall at each side. The wall was six feet high--too high to fire over--but as it was in a somewhat dilapidated condition there was no difficulty in knocking away several loose bricks at intervals, so as to make a rough-and-ready battlement. Desmond instructed the men to fire alternately through the embrasures thus made. As soon as one had fired he was to fall back and reload as fast as possible while another man took his place. By this device, Desmond hoped to deceive the enemy for a time as to the numbers of the defenders in the compound.

But it was not to be expected that the enemy could long be kept out, and in the last resort it would be necessary to retreat to the house. In view of the presence of the ladies this was a step to be avoided if possible. It might indeed be the wiser course to surrender for their sakes. As the thought struck Desmond he called to the Babu, who was keeping watch on the roof.

"Babu," he said, "ask the ladies to occupy the least-exposed room. Tell them that if the enemy get over the wall I will try to make an arrangement with them, rather than provoke an attack on the house."

The Babu disappeared. But a few moments later Phyllis Merriman, wearing the costume of a native lady came running out.

"Mother bids me say, Mr. Burke," she said, "on no account let such considerations weigh with you. She says fight to the last. We will risk anything rather than go back to captivity. You will beat them, Mr. Burke, won't you?"

"I will do my best, Miss Merriman," replied Desmond. "But pray go back; they may be here at any moment. I need not say how glad I am to find you well. Pray tell Mrs. Merriman that we will all do our best for her and you."

"I know you will. And my father?"

"He is distressed, of course, but clings to hope. Do, Miss Merriman, retire at once. I see the enemy coming from the grove."

"Phyllis! Phyllis!" cried Mrs. Merriman from the house; "come in at once! Mr. Burke, send her in. Have no mercy on the wretches, I implore you."

The girl walked back reluctantly. Unknown to Desmond, she went no further than the doorway, where, just hidden from sight, she watched all that followed.

The enemy had clearly been nonplussed by their sudden check. There were no British troops, so far as they knew, for many miles round, and concerted resistance from the natives was unlikely. But they were now emerging from the mango grove, a hundred yards away. They came on foot, leaving their horses out of musket range. Desmond's heart sank as he counted them. There were even more than he had supposed. They numbered fifty-four, and several had no doubt been left in charge of the horses. Still he felt that he had two advantages. The first was his position behind a wall; the second, the fact that the enemy, unless they had obtained information from the villagers, could not know what force they had to deal with. Their ignorance of course must be only temporary; if one of them should succeed in mounting the wall the weakness of the defence must immediately be seen.

As the enemy, tall men in the costume of native cavalry, assembled by twos and threes at the edge of the grove Desmond noticed three Europeans leave the main body and advance some way into the open. It was with a flush of indignation and a fierce resolve to bring him at last to book that Desmond recognized one of them as Diggle. With his companions he walked at a safe distance completely round the building. For some time they halted at the back, carefully scanning the position. Here the wall approached the house much more closely than in the front, and no one could mount it without being fully exposed to fire from the upper windows. After his examination, Diggle returned with the two men, whom from their appearance Desmond judged to be Frenchmen, to the main body, and sent off half a dozen men towards the other end of the village. While they were gone one of the Frenchmen seemed to Desmond to be expostulating with Diggle; but the latter only laughed and waved his gloved hand in the direction of the house.

The messengers soon returned, dragging with them three of the villagers. These Diggle took aside separately and questioned: it was clear to Desmond that he was ascertaining the strength of the garrison. Apparently satisfied, he divided his force into three parts; the largest, consisting of some forty men, remained at the edge of the grove; the two smaller proceeded to the right and left of the back of the house. One was in command of a Frenchman, but the Frenchman who had expostulated with Diggle had apparently refused to have anything to do with the affair: he held himself aloof, and by and by disappeared into the grove. Diggle's evident intention was to weaken the garrison by forcing Desmond to divide his already too small force. He had to detach eight of his men--three to the windows and five to the wall; leaving only fourteen, including Bulger and Toley, to meet the rush in front.

It was not long in coming. Diggle did not wait to parley. Taking a musket from one of his men he raised it to his shoulder and fired at a sepoy whose head just showed above the gate. The man raised his hand to his brow and fell back with a sharp cry--a bullet had ploughed a furrow through his scalp. Desmond checked his men as they were about to fire in reply; but when, in the rush that followed, the enemy came within thirty yards, he gave the word, and seven muskets flashed forth across the barricade. The attacking party were coming forward in close order, and five of the men fell. But the rest sprang forward with shrill yells, Diggle, who was untouched, urging them on. Even the fire of Desmond's second rank failed to check them. Two or three dropped; others were soon swarming up the wall, and though the defenders with clubbed muskets struck savagely at their heads and hands as they appeared above the coping, if one drew back, another took his place; and the wall was so long that at several points there were gaps between Desmond's sepoys where the enemy could mount unmolested.

Desmond, having discharged his two pistols, disposing of one of the assailants with each shot, was in the act of reloading when Diggle leapt into the compound, followed by two of his men. Shouting to Bulger, Desmond threw the pistols and rammer on the ground behind him, and, drawing his sword, dashed at the three intruders, who were slightly winded by the charge and their exertions in scaling the wall.

Desmond could never afterwards remember the details of the crowded moments that followed. There were cries all around him: behind, the strident voice of Mr. Toley was cheering his men to repel the assault at the back of the house; at his side Bulger was bellowing like a bull of Bashan. But all this was confused noise to him, for his attention was wholly occupied with his old enemy. His first lunge at Diggle was neatly parried, and the two, oblivious of all that was happening around them, looked and into each other's eyes, read grim determination there, and fought with a cold fury that meant death to the first that gave an opening to his opponent's sword.

If motive counted, if the right cause could always win, the issue admitted of no doubt. Desmond had a heavy score to pay off. From the time when he had met Diggle in the street at Market Drayton to his last encounter with him at the Battle of the Carts, he had been the mark of his enmity, malice, spite, trickery. But Desmond thought less of his own wrongs than of the sorrow of his friend Mr. Merriman, and the harrowing wretchedness which must have been the lot of the ladies while they were in Diggle's power. The man had brought misery into so many lives that it would be a good deed if, in the fortune of war, Desmond's sword could rid the world of him.

And Diggle, on his side, was nerved by the power of hate. Baseless as were his suspicions of Desmond's friendship with Sir Willoughby Stokes, he felt that this boy was an obstacle. Ever since their paths had crossed he had been conscious that he had to do with a finer, nobler nature than his own; and Desmond's courage and skill had again and again frustrated him. As he faced him now, it was with the feeling that, if this boy were killed, a most dangerous barrier to the realisation of his nefarious schemes would be removed. Thus, on either side, it was war to the death. What Desmond lacked in skill and experience he made up for by youth and strength. The two combatants were thus equally matched: a grain in the scale might decide the issue. But the longer the fight lasted the better were Desmond's chances. He had youth in his favour. Thanks in large measure to Diggle himself, Desmond had led a hard life: his muscles were like iron. The older man by and by began to flag: more than once his guard was nearly beaten down: nothing but his great skill in swordsmanship and the coolness that never deserted him saved him from the sharp edge of Desmond's blade.

But when he seemed almost at the end of his strength, fortune suddenly befriended him. Bulger, with his clubbed musket and terrible iron hook, had disposed of the two men who leapt with Diggle into the compound; but there were others behind them: three men dropped to the ground close by, and, making a simultaneous rush, bore Bulger back against Desmond, hampering his sword arm. One of Desmond's sepoys sprang to the rescue, but he was too late to stem the tide. A blow from a musket stock disabled Bulger's right arm; he lost his footing. As he fell, his hook, still active, caught Diggle's leg and brought him to the ground, just as, taking advantage of the diversion, he was making exultantly what he intended for a final lunge at Desmond. He fell headlong, rolling over Bulger, who was already on the ground.

How the end came Desmond did not clearly see. He knew that he was beset by three of Diggle's men, and, falling back before them, he heard the voice of Phyllis Merriman close by, and felt a pistol thrust into his hand. She had slipped out of the doorway, picked up the weapons as they lay where Desmond had flung them, completed the loading, and advanced fearlessly into the thick of the fray. At one and the same moment Desmond fired upon his enemies and implored the brave girl to go back. Then suddenly there was a lull in the uproar. Bulger was upon his feet, Diggle's men paused in their fighting and gazed in consternation at their prostrate leader. It seemed but a moment; then every man of them was scrambling pell-mell over the wall, yelling as the stocks of the sepoys' muskets sped them on their flight.

"What is it?" asked Desmond.

Bulger pointed to the form of Diggle, lying huddled among the fallen.

"He've gone to his account, sir, which I may be wrong, but the Almighty have got a long black score agen him."

"How did it happen?"

Bulger lifted his hook.

"'Twas that there Diggle as was the why and wherefore o' this little ornament, sir, and 'twas only right he should be paid for what he done. We fell down, him and me; I was under. He hoisted himself on his hands to get free, and I lifted my hook, sir, and caught him a blow under the chin. If it didn't break his neck, sir, my name en't Bill Bulger, which I'm sorry for his poor wicked soul all the same."

Phyllis had her hands clasped about Desmond's arm.

"Is he dead?" she asked in a voice of awe.

"Come away," said Desmond quietly, leading her towards the house. "Let us find your mother."

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST

In which friends meet, and part; and our hero hints a proposal.

The fight was over. It was Diggle's quarrel; neither the Frenchmen nor the natives had any concern in it, and when their leader was dead they had no more interest in continuing the struggle. They drew off; the weary defenders collected the dead and attended to the wounded; and Desmond went into the house.

"God bless you, Mr. Burke!" said Mrs. Merriman, tears streaming from her eyes as she met him and clasped his hands. "You are not hurt?"

"Just a scratch or two, ma'am; nothing to trouble about."

But the ladies insisted on bathing the two slight wounds on head and arm which in the heat of the fight he had not noticed. And then Mrs. Merriman told him all that had happened since the day he left them in such merry spirits at Khulna. How they had been trapped by Diggle, pretending to be a Monsieur de Bonnefon: how he had conveyed them to the house of his friend Sinfray: how after many months their whereabouts had been revealed to Surendra Nath by one of his numerous relatives, a man who had a distant cousin among Sinfray's servants: how the Babu, displaying unwonted energy, had come with a number of friends and fallen unawares upon their captors, afterwards taking them to a house of his father's in this village: how the old man and his son had both been stricken with jungle fever and the father died, and when the Babu lay helpless and unconscious on his sick bed they had found no means of communicating with their friends. Mrs. Merriman shuddered as she spoke of the terrors of their captivity. They had been well treated, indeed; Monsieur de Bonnefon, or Diggle, as she afterwards learned to call him, had visited them several times and seen that their wants were supplied. But their enforced seclusion and inactivity, their dread of the unknown, their uncertainty as to what might have befallen Mr. Merriman, had told heavily upon their health and spirits. Rumour brought news of the tragedy of the Black Hole: they heard that the few survivors were prisoners of the Nawab, and they feared the worst. From Surendra Nath they learnt that they need not despair; and since then they had lived on in the hope that when the Babu had recovered from his illness, he would find some means of restoring them to the husband and father from whom they had so long been parted.

"Surendra Nath has a heart of gold, Mr. Burke," said Mrs. Merriman in concluding her story. "Poor man! he has been very ill. We must do something to show our gratitude for his devotion when we get back to Calcutta."

Desmond then in his turn told them all that had happened since their disappearance. When they learnt of the result of the battle of Plassey and that Clive was marching towards Murshidabad, they were eager to set off at once.

"Yes, ma'am," said Desmond, "we will start as soon as we can. I will leave you to make your preparations. It may not be possible to start before night, the country being so disturbed, so that if you can sleep through the day you will be fitter for the journey."

He left them, and going into the compound found Bulger and Toley looking with curiosity at the body of Diggle.

"Hi, sir!" said Bulger as Desmond came up to them; "this here bit o' velvet is explained at last. Mr. Toley he slit it with his cutlass, sir, and never did I see a man so down in the mouth when he knowed what was under it. Ten't nothing at all, sir; just three letters; and what for he went and burnt them three letters into the back of his hand 'twould beat a Daniel to explain. 'Fur,' sir, that's what they spells; but whether 'tis rabbit-skin or fox I can't say, though 'tis most likely fox, knowin' the man."

Desmond stooped and looked at the unclad right hand. The letters FUR were branded livid below the knuckles.

"He was always quoting Latin, Bulger," he said. "Fur is a Latin word: it means 'thief'."

"Which I might have knowed it, sir, only I think as how the man what did the stampin' might have done it in plain English. I don't hold with these foreign lingos, sir; there allers seems something sly and deceivin' about 'em. No right man 'ud ever think 'fur' meant 'thief'! Thief an' all, sir, he's dead. Mr. Toley and me 'll put him away decent like: and it won't do him no harm if we just says 'Our Father' over the grave."

Desmond was turning away when three of his men came into the compound, two grasping a Frenchman by the arms, the third a black boy. The former Desmond recognized as the man whom he had seen expostulating with Diggle; the latter was Scipio Africanus, looking scared and miserable. The men explained that, pursuing the fugitives, they had captured their prisoners in the grove. The Frenchman at once addressed Desmond in broken English. He said that he had tried in vain to dissuade Diggle from his attempt to capture the ladies. The party had been sent by Monsieur Law to announce his coming. He was advancing from Patna with a considerable body of French troops designed for the support of the Nawab. As he was speaking the Frenchman caught sight of Diggle's exposed hand. He started, with an exclamation of surprise. Then in answer to Desmond's question he revealed the secret that had so long perplexed him.

Seven years before, he said, in December, 1750, there was a brilliant foreigner named Peloti among the officers of Major de la Touche, a young soldier who had been singled out by Dupleix, the French Governor of Pondicherry, as a military genius of the first order. Peloti was with the French army when, less than 4,000 in number, it fell upon the vast hordes of Nadir Jang near Gingi, and won the battle that set Muzaffar Jang on the throne of the Dekkan and marked the zenith of Dupleix's success. The new Nawab, in gratitude to the French for the services rendered him, sent to Dupleix a present of a million rupees, and a casket of jewels worth half as much again. This casket was given to Peloti to deliver: he had abused his trust by abstracting the gem of the collection, a beautiful diamond; and the theft being accidently discovered, Dupleix in his rage ordered the thief to be branded on the right hand with the word 'fur,' and drummed him out of the French employment. For some years nothing more had been seen of Peloti; but he had recently returned, and offered his services to Bussy, the French commander in the Dekkan. He brought with him valuable information, gained in London, of the East India Company's intentions; and this, together with his evident knowledge of Clive's movements and of affairs in Calcutta, had caused his former offence to be overlooked, and his offer was accepted.

Desmond thanked the Frenchman for his information. "I am sorry to keep you a prisoner, monsieur," he said; "but I must trouble you to return with me to Murshidabad. I can promise you good treatment from Colonel Clive."

The Frenchman smiled, shrugged, and exclaimed: "Eh bien! À la guerre comme à la guerre!"

Remembering Coja Solomon, Desmond asked Toley to search Diggle's body before burying it. But nothing was found, except a little money. The Armenian's property had evidently been left under guard in the grove, and was doubtless by this time far away, in the possession of one or other of Diggle's runagate followers.

Desmond was collecting his party, preparatory to starting for Murshidabad, when a native horseman rode into the village at full speed, dismounted, and, humbly salaaming, announced that he had a message from Law Sahib. It was clear that, seeing Europeans, he supposed them to be Frenchmen. Desmond did not undeceive him. The man said that Law Sahib had received news of Clive Sahib's victory at Plassey, and, seeing that his promised assistance to the Nawab was too late, had at once retired to Patna and wished Diggle Sahib to rejoin him there. Dismissing the messenger, Desmond rejoiced that there was no reason now to delay his departure; his mission for Clive was fulfilled.

At nightfall the party set off. Closed chairs had been provided for the ladies, and these were carried in the midst, Bulger on one side, Toley on the other, and Desmond behind. One person whom Desmond had expected to take with him was absent: Scipio Africanus, on seeing the dead body of his master, had uttered one heart-rending howl and fled. No attempt was made to pursue him; and Desmond never saw him again. He reflected that, villainous as Diggle had proved to be, he had at least been able to win the affection of his servant.

On the way they met Coja Solomon, who, on learning of the disappearance of his valuables, heaped abuse upon Desmond and went away wringing his hands.

Travelling slowly, by easy stages, and only in the cooler hours, it took the party three days to reach Murshidabad. Desmond found that Clive had entered the city two days before and taken up his abode at the Murad Bagh. Mir Jafar had been accepted as Nawab, and nothing had been heard of Siraj-uddaula. Desmond first sought out Major Coote.

"By George, Burke!" said that officer, "Colonel Clive is in a towering rage at your long absence; he expected your return long ago. And you ought to know that Colonel Clive in a rage is not quite as mild as milk."

"I'm afraid I must brave his anger," said Desmond. "I've found Mr. Merriman's ladies."

"You have?"

"Yes, and brought them back with me. And Peloti will trouble us no more: we had to fight for the ladies, and Bulger killed him. Won't Mr. Clive forgive me?"

"I can't answer for Mr. Clive; no one can say what he will do. But I tell you one thing: you'll put Warren Hastings' nose out of joint. You knew he was sweet on Merriman's daughter?"

"No, I didn't know it. I don't see what that has to do with me."

"Don't you, egad!" said Coote with a laugh. "Sure, my boy, you'll see it before long. Well, I won't keep you to hear your story. Go to Mr. Clive at once, and let me know what happens."

Desmond found Clive in company with Mr. Watts and Rai Durlabh, Mr. Scrafton and Omichand. He had some difficulty in obtaining admittance; only his representation that he bore important news prevailed with the darwan. He learnt afterwards that the great bankers, the Seths, had just left the meeting, after it had been proved that, owing to the depletion of the treasury, only one half of the immense sums promised to Clive and the English in Mir Jafar's treaty could be paid at once, the remainder to follow in three years. Desmond entered the room just in time to hear Clive say to Scrafton:

"It is now time to undeceive Omichand."

Mr. Scrafton went up to the Sikh, and said quietly in Hindustani:

"Omichand, the red paper is a trick; you are to have nothing."

Omichand stood for a moment dazed: then he fell back in a faint and was carried by his attendants from the room. The shock had unhinged the poor man's reason: he lingered insane for eighteen months and died.

At the time Desmond knew nothing of the deceit that had been practised on him; but in the light of his after knowledge he understood the strange expression that clouded Clive's face as the old man was carried away: a look of pity mingled with contempt. Catching sight of Desmond, the great soldier flashed out:

"What do you mean, sir, by absenting yourself so long? I sent you in advance because I thought you would be speedy. A snail would have gone more quickly."

"I am sorry, sir," said Desmond. "I was unexpectedly delayed. I had got nearly as far as Rajmahal when I learnt the whereabouts of Mrs. Merriman. She was in hiding with Surendra Nath, one of Mr. Merriman's men. I heard that Diggle--Peloti, sir--was about to attempt her recapture, and I felt that you yourself, had you been in my place, would have tried to save the ladies."

Clive grunted. "Go on, sir," he said.

"We found the place, just in time, sir. Diggle came up with a couple of Frenchmen and a troop of native horse. We beat them off, and I have brought the ladies here."

"And forgotten your instructions?"

"No, sir. Monsieur Law was advancing from Patna: Peloti was coming ahead to inform the Nawab of his approach. But the whole country knows of your victory; the news reached Monsieur Law, and he at once turned back. The messenger he sent to inform Peloti of his change of plan came too late."

"Indeed! What was Peloti about?"

"He was killed in the fight, sir."

"A good riddance!" exclaimed Clive impetuously. Then a far-away look came into his eyes; his expression softened. "Poor wretch!" he said in an undertone. "How many did his men muster, Burke?"

"Nearly sixty, sir."

"And yours?"

"A score of sepoys, sir; but I had two seamen with me: Bulger, whom you know; and Mr. Toley, an American, mate of one of Mr. Merriman's ships. They were worth a dozen others."

Clive grunted again.

"Well, go and tell Mrs. Merriman I'll be glad to wait on her. And look here, Burke: you may consider yourself a captain in the Company's service from this day. Come now, I'm very busy: go and give Mrs. Merriman my message, and take care that next time you are sent on special service you are not drawn off on any such mad expedition. Come to me to-morrow."

Desmond trod on air as he left the house. Clive's impulsiveness had never before seemed to him such an admirable quality.

As he went into the street he became aware from the excited state of the crowd that something had happened. Meeting a sepoy he inquired, and learnt that Siraj-uddaula had just been brought into the city. The luckless Nawab had arrived in his boat close to Rajmahal, and, with the recklessness that characterized him, he had gone ashore while his servants prepared a meal. Though disguised in mean clothes he had been recognized by a fakir who happened to be at the very spot where he landed. The man had a grudge against him; his ears and nose had been cut off some time before by the Nawab's orders. Hastening into Rajmahal he had informed the governor, who sent a guard at once to seize the unhappy prince and bring him to Murshidabad.

Before the next morning dawned Siraj-uddaula was dead. Mir Jafar handed him to his son Miran with strict orders to guard him carefully. Acting on a mocking suggestion of Miran, a courtier named Muhammad Beg took a band of armed men to the Nawab's room, and hacked him to death. Next morning his mutilated body was borne on an elephant's back through the streets, and it was known to his former subjects that the prince who had ruled them so evilly was no more. Such was the piteous end, in his twenty-sixth year, of Siraj-uddaula.

Immediately on arriving in Murshidabad, Desmond had sent a kasid to Calcutta to inform Mr. Merriman that his wife and daughter had been found and were safe. The merchant set off at once on horseback and arrived in the midst of preparations for the return of the army to Calcutta. Desmond was present at his meeting with the ladies; the scene brought a lump into his throat, and his embarrassment was complete when one and all overwhelmed him with praise and thanks.

Nor was Surendra Nath forgotten. His readiness and courage at the critical moment had undoubtedly saved the ladies; Mr. Merriman declared that he would henceforth have a higher opinion of the Bengali character. The Babu beamed with joy when his employer announced that he would give him the Hormuzzeer and a considerable part of his business.

"I change the name to Merriman, sir," he said, "and my family will hold that name in veneration and esteem unto third and fourth generations."

A few days later a long procession of three hundred boats, laden with the money, plate and jewels that had been handed over to the British, set off with colours flying, amid strains of martial music, down the river to Calcutta. Every man who had taken part in the expedition had a share of the vast treasure. Desmond found himself richer by £3,000.

Calcutta was en fête when the expedition returned. Desmond was surprised to see how much had already been done to repair the ruin wrought by the Nawab. A new city was rising from the ruins. Congratulations were poured on the victors; and though now, as always, Clive had to contend with the jealousies of lesser men, there was none but had to admit that he was a great man who deserved well of his country.

Mr. Merriman at once completed the winding up of his affairs, begun months before. His recent troubles had much aged him; India was to him now a hateful country, and he decided to return to England immediately with his wife and daughter. He tried to persuade Desmond to accompany him, but in vain.

"'Tis very good of you, sir," said Desmond warmly; "you have done so much for me. But Mr. Clive has made me a captain: his work is not yet done, and I do not feel that I can leave him until I have done something to justify his confidence in me."

"Well, boys will be boys. I have made a fortune here: I suppose you want to do the same. 'Tis natural. But don't stay in India as long as I have. I don't want to lose sight of you. You have done me the best service man ever did: you have avenged my brother and restored to me all that I held dearest in the world. I love you as a son, Desmond; I wish you were my son indeed, my boy."

Desmond looked a little uncomfortable.

"May I venture----" he began hesitatingly; "do you think, in some years time, if I get on here, I might----"

"Well?"

"Do you think I might--in short, that I might have a chance of becoming your son, sir?"

"Eh? Is that it? Mr. Warren Hastings asked me the same question the other day, Desmond. You can't both have her, you know. What does Phyllis say?"

"I--I haven't asked her, sir."

"Quite right. You're only a boy. Well, Hastings is to remain as assistant to Mr. Scrafton, our new agent at Murshidabad. You remain as assistant--or is it rival, eh?--to Mr. Clive. You're both out of the way. Phyllis may prefer Bulger."

"Bulger!"

"Yes. Didn't you know? Phyllis has taken a fancy to him; that hook of his appears to be a most fascinating feature; and he will accompany us home."

Desmond laughed a little awkwardly.

"I hope----" he began.

"He won't hook her? But there, I mustn't make sport of such a serious matter. Go on as you have begun, my dear lad, and I promise you, when you come home, that if Phyllis hasn't found some one already to her liking, you shall have all the influence I can exert with the minx."

"Thank you, sir: I couldn't ask for more. There's another thing: do you think you could do anything for Mr. Toley? He's a capital fellow."

"I know it. I have anticipated you. Toley is appointed captain of the Jane, an Indiaman that arrived the other day; her captain died of scurvy on the way out. She'll sail for England next week; we go with her, and so does that villain Barker, who'll get his deserts when he reaches London. The Good Intent is broken up; her interloping is over for good and all. But come, my boy, sure 'tis time we dressed: Admiral Watson likes punctuality, and I promise you he'll give us a capital dinner. A word in your ear: Phyllis is to sit between you and Hastings. You can't eat him, at any rate."

A week later Desmond went down to the Company's ghat to see the Jane sail. Mr. Toley, in his brand new uniform, looked more melancholy than ever, and Phyllis Merriman made a little grimace when she saw for the first time the captain under whose charge she was to sail for home.

"Don't be alarmed," said Desmond, laughing. "The sadder he looks, I believe the happier he is. Silas Toley is a fine seaman and a true gentleman.--I wonder if we shall ever meet again, Miss Merriman?"

"I wonder, Mr. Burke."

"I shall hear about you, I hope."

"Dear me! 'tis very unlikely. Father hates putting pen to paper. 'Tis far more likely I shall hear of you, Mr. Burke, doing terrible things among these poor Indians--and tigers: I am sure you must want to shoot a tiger."

"You shall have my first skin--if I may send it."

"Mamma will be charmed, I am sure; though, indeed, she may have too many of them, for we have the same promise from--let me see--Mr. Lushington, Mr. Picard, Mr. Hastings, and----"

"All aboard!" sang out a voice from the deck of the vessel.

Phyllis gave Desmond her hand, and looked at last into his eyes. What he read in hers filled him with contentment. She ran across the plank and joined her father and mother, to whom Desmond had already said his adieus. At the last moment Bulger came up puffing, a miscellaneous collection of curiosities dangling from his hook.

"Good-bye, sir," he said, giving Desmond a hearty grip. Then he shut one eye and jerked his head in the direction of the vessel. "Never you fear, sir: I'll keep my weather eye open. Missy have took an uncommon fancy to this here little fish-hook o' mine, and 'tis my belief I'll keep her hangin' on to it, sir, nevertheless and notwithstandin' and all that, till you comes home covered with gore and glory. I may be wrong."

He tumbled on deck. Then amid cheers, with flags flying and handkerchiefs waving, the good ship moved from the ghat into the swelling river.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND

In which the curtain falls, to the sound of bells; and our hero comes to his own.

It was a mellow day in October, 1760, a little more than six years since the day when Market Drayton gave rein to its enthusiasm in honour of Clive. From a flagstaff newly erected on the roof of the Four Alls on the Newport Road a square of bunting flapped in the breeze. Inside the inn the innkeeper was drawing a pint of ale for his one solitary customer, a shambling countryman with a shock of very red hair, and eyes of innocent blue.

"There, that makes a quart, Tummas Biles, and 'tis as much as your turnip head can safely carry."

He passed the can across the bar on a hook that projected from a wooden socket in his sleeve.

"Why now, Mr. Bulger," said Tummas the tranter, "what fur do you go fur to miscall me like other fowk? I've been miscalled ever since that day since I drove a stranger into Market Drayton six year ago. I mind me he had a red feather in his cap, and not knowing my name was plain Tummas he called me Jehu, he did, and I never forgot it. Ay, and I tell ya what, Mr. Bulger: it took me two year to find out why he give me such an uncommon name. I mind I was sittin' by a hayrick of Mr. Burke's--that was long afore he was lamed by that terrible horse o' his--and ponderin' on that heathen name, when all at wunst it comed to me like a flash o' lightnin'. 'Jehu!' says I to myself. 'I bin and got ya at last.' Ya see, when that stranger saw me, I were drivin' a horse. Well, I says to my horse, 'Gee-ho!' says I. Not knowin' my true chrisom name, the stranger takes up my words an' fits 'em to me. 'Gee-ho!' says I; 'Gee-ho!' says he; only bein' a kind o' furriner he turns it into 'Jehu': an' the name fits me uncommon. Hee! hee!"

"I may be wrong," said Bulger, "but 'tis my belief 'Hee-haw!' would fit you a big sight better. But hark! en't them the bells a-ringin '?"

The two hastened to the door, and stood looking down the road towards Market Drayton. From the distance came the faint sounds of a merry peal. By and by a four-horsed open carriage with outriders appeared on the crest of the hill. Amid the dust it raised another could be seen, and behind this a long line of vehicles. Every coachman's whip was decorated with a wedding favour. The cavalcade approached rapidly. As the first carriage drew nearer Bulger became more and more excited, and when it dashed past the inn he raised his hook and shouted "Hurray! hurray!" with the full force of his lungs.

"Give 'em a cheer, Tummas," he cried. "Hee-haw will do if you knows no better. Hurray for Major Desmond Burke and his madam--the purtiest gal I ever did see, east or west. Hurray for her father and mother: there they are, with old squire an' the Major's mother. And there's Mr. Clive, all alone by himself 'cos his leg's stiff wi' the rheumatics; but he would come to see the deed done, which I may be wrong, but the new King George'll make him a live lord afore he's much older. Open your mouth, Tummas, an' if you hee-haw loud enough, I'll draw you another pint for nothing."

Desmond, now a Major, had returned home in company with Clive. During the three years that had passed since he witnessed the sailing of the Jane he had seen much service. He had been with Colonel Forde when that fine soldier expelled the French from the Northern Sirkars. He was with the same officer when he thrashed the Dutch at Biderra. He had been in close touch with Clive when these successful operations were planned; and the nearer he saw him, the more he admired the great man's courage in taking risks, promptitude in dealing with sudden emergencies, sagacity in seeing to the heart of a difficult situation. Thus, during those years, he gained much knowledge of the science of war, and much experience in dealing with men. He became rich also, not by questionable means, but by reaping the legitimate rewards of good and faithful service.

Before leaving India, Desmond learnt of changes that had happened at home. His brother had been thrown by a young and mettlesome horse, and so badly trampled that he must remain a helpless invalid for the rest of his life. Sir Willoughby Stokes, even before he learnt of the death of his nephew Peloti, had made Desmond his heir. Mr. Merriman had bought an estate near his father's old friend, and settled down to the life of a country gentleman. A year after his return, Job Grinsell, the landlord of the Four Alls, had been sentenced to a long term of imprisonment for poaching, and Mr. Merriman had no difficulty in persuading Sir Philip Chetwode to let his inn to Bulger.

After an interview with Mr. Merriman, Desmond found the courage to put to Phyllis the question which he had not ventured to ask before she left India. What the answer was may be inferred from the fact that Sir Willoughby insisted on the wedding taking place at once. It was time for the return of his old enemy the gout, he said; he was going to Buxton to end his days, and wished to see the Hall in the hands of his heir before he left. Mr. Burslem, Desmond's old schoolmaster, performed the ceremony, and Clive, though suffering from rheumatism, came down for the occasion. The only familiar form that Desmond missed was that of old Dickon, who had died a few months after Desmond's departure from home.

Desmond settled down for a time at the Hall, cheering his mother's declining years, repaying good for ill to his invalid brother, and winning golden opinions from all his neighbours high and low. He eagerly watched the further career of his old hero, now Lord Clive; learnt to admire him as statesman as well as soldier; sympathized with him through all the attacks made upon him, and mourned him sincerely when, in 1774, the great man, preyed upon by an insidious disease, died by his own hand. Five years later he felt the East calling, bought a commission, and sailed with General Sir Eyre Coote, to take part in the "frantic military exploits," as some one called them, of Warren Hastings against Haidar Ali and Tippu in Mysore. He came home a Colonel, and was made a baronet for his services in the war. Finally retiring from public life, he lived for thirty years longer on his estate, happy in the careers of his two sons, who became soldiers like himself. He died, an old man, in the year after Waterloo, at which his eldest grandson, a lieutenant in the Guards, behaved with a gallantry that attracted the notice of the Iron Duke.

Visitors to Sir Desmond Burke's house were amused and interested to see a battered wooden stump with an iron hook hanging in a conspicuous place in the hall, amid tigers' heads, Indian weapons, and other trophies from the East.

"That?" Sir Desmond would say, in answer to their question. "That belonged to one of the best friends I ever had, a fine old salt named William Bulger. I met him when I was sixteen, and buried him when I was forty: and my wife and I have felt ever since a blank in our lives. If you can put up with an old man's stories, I'll tell you something of what Bulger and I went through together, when I was a youngster with Clive in India."

THE END.

* * * * * * * *

Uniform Edition of the Stories of

HERBERT STRANG

SIZE 7 3/4 in. x 5 in., CLOTH, WITH COLOUR AND HALF-TONE PLATES, AND FULL COLOUR JACKETS.

Tom Burnaby: A Story of Uganda and the Great Congo Forest. Illustrated by C. SHELDON.

A particular interest attaches to "Tom Burnaby," for it was the first romance of adventure written by Mr. Herbert Strang, and it secured for him the place in the forefront of writers of boys' stories that he has maintained ever since. The hero is attached to an expedition sent to punish a band of slave-raiding Arabs in the vicinity of the Victoria Nyanza. He is captured by the Arabs, but escapes, and, after long wanderings in the great Congo Forest, is befriended by an African chief, whom he assists in a prolonged struggle with his old enemies. The story of Tom's efforts to impart military discipline to the natives, his strategy and final triumph over the Arabs, is told with great zest and with many touches of humour.

"The tone of the story is excellent; manly and spirited, it cannot fail to rouse a response in a boy's heart."--World.

A Gentleman-at-Arms: Being Passages in the Life of Sir Christopher Rudd, Knight, as Related by Himself in the Year 1641.

This book is unique in literature for boys. It relates the adventurous career of an Elizabethan gentleman, in a style carefully modelled on the simple prose of the century which produced the Authorised Version of the Bible. No previous writer for boys has ever attempted a similar achievement. Apart from its romantic and exciting incidents, this story has great value by reason of its historical and geographical information, and its exceptional style.

Sultan Jim: Empire Builder. Illustrated by CYRUS CUNEO.

Mr. Herbert Strang has chosen the African continent as the setting for some of his most remarkable stories, and of these "Sultan Jim" is not the least remarkable. It was written prior to the war, when the colonising activities of rival European powers was raising problems of the greatest interest and importance. The presence of a young Englishman in one of the debatable lands at a time of upheaval and international rivalry enables him to uphold the interests of the Empire against formidable opposition. The story is brimful of adventure, and its moral is that of patriotic self-sacrifice.

The Adventures of Harry Rochester: A Story of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene. Illustrated by W. RAINEY.

Harry Rochester stands unrivalled amongst stories for boys as a living presentment of a stirring period of English history. It creates anew the glamour of the eighteenth century, and many of the great personages of the time cross its pages. Harry's ambition is to carry the Queen's colours, but his father being a poor country parson, and commissions selling high, he sees no prospect of attaining it. Nothing daunted, however, he takes whatever means offer to carve out a career for himself. As assistant to a Dutch merchant responsible for victualling certain of the Allied troops, Harry is brought into contact with the army in Flanders, and with Marlborough himself; and, later, his desire for a military career finds an outlet with the army of Prince Eugene, under whom he fights at Blenheim.

"A stirring tale ... told in such a manner as to make it welcome to any healthy-minded boy, and also, be it said, to not a few whose boyhood, alas! is many a long year behind them."--Daily Telegraph.

Humphrey Bold: His Chances and Mischances by Land and Sea. A Story of the Time of Benbow. Illustrated by W. H. MARGETSON.

In this book, one of Mr. Herbert Strang's best-known historical romances, are recounted the adventures of Humphrey Bold from the time when he was a puny slip of a boy attending Shrewsbury School, the butt of his companions, who chaffed him for being Bold by name and timid by nature, until he had grown into a sturdy young giant, and sailed into Plymouth Sound as First Lieutenant of the Bristol frigate. The intervening chapters tell of Humphrey's service at sea under Admiral Benbow, his capture by the French and his escape from prison, and of the many exciting events that befell him in the West Indies.

"So felicitous is he in imparting local colour to his narrative that whilst reading it we have found ourselves thinking of Thackeray. This suggests a standard by which very few writers of boys' books will bear being judged. The majority of them are content to provide their young friends with mere reading. Herbert Strang offers them literature."--Glasgow Herald.

Rob the Ranger: A Story of the Fight for Canada. Illustrated by W. H. MARGETSON.

"Rob the Ranger," which has been placed by General Baden-Powell first among the great scouting stories, brings out the romantic side of the fight for Canada. Rob Somers, son of an English settler in New York State, sets out with Lone Pete, a trapper, in pursuit of an Indian raiding party which has destroyed his home and carried off his younger brother. He is captured and taken to Quebec, where he finds his brother in strange circumstances, and escapes in dead of winter, in company with a little band of New Englanders. They are pursued over snow and ice, and in a log-hut beside Lake Champlain maintain a desperate struggle against a large force of French, Indians, and half-breeds, ultimately reaching Fort Edward in safety.

"If there had ever been the least doubt as to Mr. Strang's pre-eminence as a writer of boys' books, it would be very effectually banished by this work of his."--Glasgow Herald.

Palm Tree Island: A Romance of the South Seas. Illustrated by ARCHIBALD WEBB and ALAN WRIGHT.

In this story two boys are left on a volcanic island in the South Seas, destitute of everything but their clothes. The story relates how they provided themselves with food and shelter, with tools and weapons; how they fought with wild dogs and sea monsters; and how, when they have settled down to a comfortable life under the shadow of the volcano, their peace is disturbed by the advent of savages and a crew of mutinous Englishmen. The savages are driven away; the mutineers are subdued through the boys' ingenuity; and they ultimately sail away in a vessel of their own construction. In no other book has the author more admirably blended amusement with instruction.

"Written so well that there is not a dull page in the book."--The World.

"A capital story for boys, thoroughly healthy in tone, providing plenty of adventure and a quantum of the marvellous to satisfy the most exacting of our young bloods."--Schoolmaster.

Settlers and Scouts: A Story of Pioneering in East Africa. Illustrated by T. C. DUGDALE.

The scene of this story is laid in the Highlands of British East Africa, and the book gives a vivid and accurately-drawn picture of the dangers and hardships that even in these days await the pioneer in the more remote parts of the British Empire. It also furnishes a good deal of information respecting the country and the people amid which the story moves. An Englishman and his son emigrate thither and settle down as farmers and stock-raisers; and the difficulties they encounter, first through the depredations of wild beasts, and afterwards owing to the hostility of an Arab chief and his followers engaged in the ivory trade, prove in the highest degree their courage and resource.

"Mr. Strang, as behoves such a favourite as he, provides plenty of adventure and excitement, but he gives much practical information as well, and his books may be recommended to any reader who wishes to learn what chance there is for a white settler in Uganda or to study the state of affairs at the Congo."--Daily Mail.

Boys of the Light Brigade: A Story of the Peninsular War. Illustrated by W. RAINEY.

This book opens in the streets of Salamanca with Lieutenant Jack Lumsden of the 95th Rifles endeavouring to keep the peace between some of his own Riflemen and the Spaniards. His harangue in fluent Spanish is overheard by Sir John Moore, who recognises in the young officer just the man he wants for his purpose, and sends him off upon a mission of some delicacy. Thence onward, Lumsden's adventures are interwoven with the history of Moore's gallant army in the Peninsula, culminating in the great retreat and the Battle of Corunna.

"Of all the qualities that go to make up a perfect boys' book we know of none that is wanting in 'Boys of the Light Brigade,'"--Glasgow Herald.

Kobo: A Story of the Far East. Illustrated by W. RAINEY.

This book recounts the adventures of a young British engineer during the opening phases of the Russo-Japanese War. Bob Fawcett is sent to the Far East on behalf of his firm, which has supplied range-finding instruments to the Japanese Navy. His arrival coinciding with the outbreak of war leads, by a natural sequence of events, to his being an eye-witness of the first great sea fights by which Japan revealed herself to the world as a first-rate naval power; and the grim struggle between East and West is an ever-present background to the stirring story of his subsequent adventures amongst Cossacks and Manchu brigands, and of his friendship with Kobo, an officer of the Japanese Secret Service.

"An excellent story, such as one might expect to have from the author of that capital book, 'Tom Burnaby.' 'With a Japanese duty comes inexorably first.' This, indeed, is the keynote of the whole story. This principle of action dominates Bob's friend, and it dominates the story."--Spectator.

"The book is capital: full of life and vigour and local colour.... Mr. Strang has intimate personal knowledge of the countries of which he writes, which, no doubt, accounts for much of the vraisemblance of his story."--Guardian.

Jack Brown in China: A Story of the Russo-Japanese War. (Originally published under the title of "Brown of Moukden.") Illustrated by W. RAINEY.

This book describes the adventures of a young Englishman in Manchuria during the latter stages of the Russo-Japanese War. Mr. Brown, senior, a merchant of Moukden, is wrongly convicted by the Russian authorities of giving information to the Japanese, and is deported from the city. Jack does not know where his father has been sent, but he goes through some desperate adventures in his attempts to find out, and to get his wrongs redressed. At one time he is in imminent danger of being beheaded as a "foreign devil" in an outlying village, but is delivered in the nick of time by a band of brigands; and he has more than a passing glimpse of actual warfare. There is humour as well as excitement in the book, and some of Mr. Strang's orientals are very entertaining characters.

"The equal of anything we know of in the whole range of juvenile fiction.... The book will hold boy readers spellbound."--Church Times.

Samba: A Story of the Congo. Illustrated by W. RAINEY.

The scene of this story is laid in the Congo Free State, where a young Englishman and his uncle, while prospecting for gold, are brought into violent contact with the Belgians who are working the rubber concessions. Moved to indignation by the sight of the barbarous methods employed to extort rubber from the natives, the hero openly champions the cause of the oppressed; he gathers about him a small force, to which he imparts a measure of military discipline, and with it administers a sharp lesson to the slave-drivers. He restores the confidence of the natives in the White Man; to them he is Lokolobolo, a great chief, and a harbinger of brighter days.

"It was an excellent idea on the part of Mr. Herbert Strang to write a story about the treatment of the natives in the Congo Free State.... Mr. Strang has a big following among English boys, and anything he chooses to write is sure to receive their appreciative attention."--Standard.

"Mr. Herbert Strang has written not a few admirable books for boys, but none likely to make a more profound impression than his new story of this year."--Scotsman.

The Adventures of Dick Trevanion: A Story of 1804. Illustrated by W. RAINEY.

This is a romance of the early years of the nineteenth century. In it the old smuggling days are made to live again, and reverberations are heard of the war with Napoleon. The Trevanions are a Cornish family, whose fortunes have fallen low through the working out of their tin mines, and the scheming of a relative who bears a grudge against the head of the house. Dick, after many exciting events in which he is involved with smugglers and French privateers, makes a happy discovery, through which the prosperity of his family is restored.

"Mr. Herbert Strang has been well called the 'Twentieth-Century Marryat.' His many books stand high up on the list of boys' favourites. and among his new books for this year none is likely to be more welcome than 'The Adventures of Dick Trevanion.' The story is dated in the early years of the nineteenth century, and Dick's adventures on land and sea are so vividly depicted by Mr. Strang that it would not be surprising to find the book in the hands of older readers with a taste for adventure."--Gentlewoman.

With Drake on the Spanish Main: Illustrated by ARCHIBALD WEBB.

A rousing story of adventure by sea and land. The hero, Dennis Hazelrig, is cast ashore on an island in the Spanish Main, the sole survivor of a band of adventurers from Plymouth. He lives for some time with no companion but a spider monkey, but by a series of remarkable incidents he gathers about him a numerous band of escaped slaves and prisoners, English, French and native; captures a Spanish fort; fights a Spanish galleon; meets Francis Drake, and accompanies him in his famous adventures on the Isthmus of Panama; and finally reaches England the possessor of much treasure.

"Mr. Herbert Strang bids fair to become to the present what the late G. A. Henty was to the past generation of young folk; in fact, his stirring romances, though, like Henty's, worked up on a sound historical basis, are far better written."--The Lady.

"Another of Mr. Herbert Strang's masterful stories of adventure and romance."--School Guardian.

The Air Patrol: A Story of the North-West Frontier. Illustrated by CYRUS CUNEO.

In this book Mr. Strang looks ahead to a time when there is a great Mongolian Empire whose army sweeps down on to the North-West Frontier of India. His two heroes luckily have an aeroplane, and with the help of a few Pathan miners, they hold a pass in the Hindu Kush against a swarm of Mongols, long enough to prevent the cutting of the communications of the Indian army operating in Afghanistan.

"An exceptionally good book, written moreover in excellent style."--Times.

"The 'Air Patrol' is really a masterpiece."--Morning Post.

Barclay of the Guides: A Story of the Indian Mutiny. Illustrated in Colour by W. KOEKKOEK. With Maps.

Of all our native Indian regiments the Guides have probably the most glorious traditions. They were among the few who remained true to their salt during the trying days of the great Mutiny, vying in gallantry and devotion with our best British regiments. The story tells how James Barclay, after a strange career in Afghanistan, becomes associated with this famous regiment, and, though young in years, bears a man's part in the great march to Delhi, the capture of the royal city, and the suppression of the Mutiny.

"Mr. Strang has been truly described as 'a born teacher of history,' and this story of the Indian Mutiny is an additional proof of the truth of the observation."--Schoolmistress.

Complete List of Stories for Boys by HERBERT STRANG

ADVENTURES OF DICK TREVANION, THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER, THE A GENTLEMAN-AT-ARMS A HERO OF LIEGE AIR PATROL, THE AIR SCOUT, THE BARCLAY OF THE GUIDES BLUE RAIDER, THE BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE BRIGHT IDEAS BURTON OF THE FLYING CORPS CARRY ON CRUISE OF THE GYRO-CAR, THE FIGHTING WITH FRENCH FLYING BOAT, THE FRANK FORESTER HEIR OF A HUNDRED KINGS, THE HUMPHREY BOLD JACK BROWN IN CHINA JACK HARDY KING OF THE AIR KOBO LONG TRAIL, THE LORD OF THE SEAS MOTOR SCOUT, THE NO MAN'S ISLAND OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN, THE ONE OF CLIVE'S HEROES PALM TREE ISLAND ROB THE RANGER ROUND THE WORLD IN SEVEN DAYS SAMBA SETTLERS AND SCOUTS SULTAN JIM SWIFT AND SURE THOUSAND MILES AN HOUR, A THROUGH THE ENEMY'S LINES TOM BURNABY TOM WILLOUGHBY'S SCOUTS TRUE AS STEEL WINNING HIS NAME WITH DRAKE ON THE SPANISH MAIN WITH HAIG ON THE SOMME YOUNG JACK