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.
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