For notwithstanding
his unfortunate fear of a gunshot, Billy had always been a great lover
of a uniform. As a youngster he would follow the soldiers every parade
day, not for the glory of marching in step to the music of the band, but
for the chance it gave him to throw back his shoulders, puff out his
small chest, and blow on his tin pipe-whistle in adoring imitation of
the bugler. He thought there was nothing in the world so important as
the bugler. Billy thought it did not matter that the shining little
"trumpet" merely voiced an officer's commands. The fact always remained
that at the clear, steady notes the soldiers wheeled to do his bidding;
that the bugler was a power for courage or cowardice, whichever way a
boy was built.
Then, as he grew older, he, too, began to practise on a bugle. He would
sit out on the little side verandah, early and late, tooting every
regimental call he could remember, until the time came when his
perseverance met with reward. He actually found himself installed as
bugler to the little regiment of smartly-uniformed men that was the
pride of the gay Ontario city that Billy called home.
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