Captain Jinks, Hero | Page 3

fell just upon this plume. The effect
was electric. Sam was fascinated, and he continued to hold the lead
soldier so that the dazzling light should fall on it, gazing upon it in an

ecstasy.
[Illustration: WAR'S DEMAND "BUT WHAT DID HE WANT OF
SOLDIERS?"]
Sam spent that entire day in the company of his new soldiers,--nothing
could drag him away from them. He made his father show him how
they should march and form themselves and fight. He drew them up in
hollow squares facing outward and in hollow squares facing inward, in
column of fours and in line of battle, in double rank and single rank.
"What are the bayonets for, Colonel Jinks?"
"To stick into bad people, Sam."
"And have the bad people bayonets, too?"
"Yes, Sam."
"Do they stick their bayonets into good people?"
"Oh, I suppose so. Do stop bothering me. If I'd known you'd ask so
many questions, I'd never have got you the soldiers."
His parents thought that a few days would exhaust the boy's devotion to
his new toys, but it was not so. He deserted the barnyard for the lead
soldiers. They were placed on a chair by his bed at night, and he could
not sleep unless his right hand grasped the white-plumed colonel. The
smell of the fresh paint as it peeled off on his little fingers clung to his
memory through life as the most delicious of odors. He would tease his
father to play with the soldiers with him. He would divide the force in
two, and one side would defend a fort of blocks and books while the
other assaulted. In these games Sam always insisted in having the
plumed colonel on his side. Once when Sam's colonel had succeeded in
capturing a particularly impregnable fortress on top of an unabridged
dictionary his father remarked casually:
"He's quite a hero, isn't he, Sam?"

"A what?" said Sam.
"A hero."
"What is a hero, Colonel Jinks?" And his father explained to him what
a hero was, giving several examples from history and fiction. The word
took the boy's fancy at once. From that day forward the officer was
colonel no longer, he was a "hero," or rather, "the hero." Sam now
began to save his pennies for other soldiers, and to beg for more and
more as successive birthdays and Christmases came round. He played
at soldiers himself, too, coaxing the less warlike children of the
neighborhood to join him. But his enthusiasm always left them behind,
and they tired much sooner than he did of the sport. He persuaded his
mother to make him a uniform something like that of the lead soldiers,
and the stores of Homeville were ransacked for drums, swords, and
belts and toy-guns. He would stand on guard for hours at the barnyard
gate, saluting in the most solemn manner whoever passed, even if it
was only a sparrow. The only interest in animals which survived his
change of heart was that which he now took in horses as chargers. He
would ride the farm-horses bare-back to the trough, holding the halter
in one hand and a tin sword in the other with the air of a field-marshal.
When strangers tapped him on the cheek and asked him--as is the wont
of strangers--"What are you going to be, my boy, when you grow up?"
he answered no longer, as he used to do, "A driver, sir," but now
invariably, "A hero."
It so happened some two or three years after Sam's mind had begun to
follow the paths of warfare that his father and mother took him one day
to an anniversary celebration of the Methodist Church at Homeville,
and a special parade of the newly organized "John Wesley Boys'
Brigade" of the church was one of the features of the occasion. If Mrs.
Jinks had anticipated this, she would doubtless have left Sam at home,
for she knew that he was already quite sufficiently inclined toward
things military; but even she could not help enjoying the boy's
unmeasured delight at this, his first experience of militarism in the flesh.
The parade was indeed a pretty sight. There were perhaps fifty boys in
line, ranging from six to eighteen years of age. Their gray uniforms

were quite new and the gilt letters "J.W.B.B." on their caps shone
brightly. They marched along with their miniature muskets and fixed
bayonets, their chubby, kissable faces all a-smile, as they sang
"Onward, Christian Soldiers," with words adapted by their pastor:
"Onward, Christian soldiers, 'Gainst the heathen crew! In the name of
Jesus Let us run them through."
By a curious coincidence their captain had a white feather in his cap,
suggesting at a considerable distance the plume of the leaden "hero."
Sam was overcome with joy. He pulled the