In Clives Command | Page 9

and where his namesake, the present Robert Clive, had
been born. He imagined himself each of those bold warriors in turn,
and saw himself, now a knight in mail, now a gay cavalier of Rupert's,
now a bewigged Georgian gentleman in frock and pantaloons, but
always with sword in hand.
No name sang a merrier tune in Desmond's imagination than the name
of Robert Clive. Three years before, when he was imbibing Latin,
Greek, and Hebrew under Mr. Burslem at the grammar school on the
hill, the amazing news came one day that Bob Clive, the wild boy who
had terrorized the tradespeople, plagued his master, led the school in
tremendous fights with the town boys, and suffered more birchings
than any scholar of his time--Bob Clive, the scapegrace who had been
packed off to India as a last resource, had turned out, as his father said,
"not such a booby after all"--had indeed proved himself to be a military
genius. How Desmond thrilled when the old schoolmaster read out the
glorious news of Clive's defense of Arcot with a handful of men against

an overwhelming host! How he glowed when the schoolroom rang with
the cheers of the boys, and when, a half holiday being granted, he
rushed forth with the rest to do battle in the church yard with the town
boys, and helped to lick them thoroughly in honor of Clive!
From that moment there was for Desmond but one man in the world,
and that man was Robert Clive. In the twinkling of an eye he became
the devoutest of hero worshipers. He coaxed Mr. Burslem to let him
occupy Clive's old desk, and with his fists maintained the privilege
against all comers. The initials R. C. roughly cut in the oak never lost
their fascination for him. He walked out day after day to Styche Hall,
two miles away, and pleased himself with the thought that his feet trod
the very spots once trodden by Bob Clive. Not an inch of the route
from Hall to school--the meadow path into Longslow, the lane from
Longslow to Shropshire Street, Little Street, Church Street, the church
yard--was unknown to him: Bob Clive had known them all. He feasted
on the oft-told stories of Clive's boyish escapades: how he had bundled
a watchman into the bulks and made him prisoner there by closing
down and fastening the shutters; how he had thrown himself across the
current of a torrential gutter to divert the stream into the cellar shop of a
tradesman who had offended him; above all, that feat of his when,
ascending the spiral turret stair of the church, he had lowered himself
down from the parapet, and, astride upon a gargoyle, had worked his
way along it until he could secure a stone that lay in its mouth, the
perilous and dizzy adventure watched by a breathless throng in the
churchyard below. The Bob Clive who had done these things was now
doing greater deeds in India; and Desmond Burke sat day after day at
his desk, gazing at the entrancing R. C., and doing over again in his
own person the exploits of which all Market Drayton was proud, and he
the proudest.
But at the age of fourteen his brother took him from school, though Mr.
Burslem had pleaded that he might remain longer and afterwards
proceed to the university. He was set to do odd jobs about the farm. To
farming itself he had no objection; he was fond of animals and would
willingly have spent his life with them. But he did object to drudging
for a hard and inconsiderate taskmaster such as his brother was, and the

work he was compelled to do became loathsome to him, and bred a
spirit of discontent and rebellion. The further news of Clive's exploits
in India, coming at long intervals, set wild notions beating in
Desmond's head, and made him long passionately for a change. At
times he thought of running away: his father had run away and carved
out a successful career, why should not he do the same? But he had
never quite made up his mind to cut the knot.
Meanwhile it became known in Market Drayton that Clive had returned
to England. Rumor credited him with fabulous wealth. It was said that
he drove through London in a gold coach, and outshone the king
himself in the splendor of his attire. No report was too highly colored to
find easy credence among the simple country folk. Clive was indeed
rich: he had a taste for ornate dress, and though neither so wealthy nor
so gaily appareled as rumor said, he was for a season the lion of
London society. The directors of the East India Company toasted him
as "General" Clive, and