An empty drawer provided the Roman galley, and in the prow thereof proudly stood Samuel the Standard-bearer. In his hand he bore the S.P.Q. R. standard of the Tenth. It looked like a curtain-pole and a pinafore—but no matter. Nor matter that his helmet was frankly the paraffin-oil funnel with an ostrich feather stuck down its up-turned nozzle, his shield of card-board, his sword a paper-knife, his cuirass a tea-tray, and his greaves a pair of Daddy's leggings. The play is the thing—and Imagination is life and salvation.
Bravely he leapt into the waves, and turned to his daunted followers as an arrow smote his shield.
"Buck up, you fellows," quoth he, "a little wetting won't hurt you—nor spoil your bronze clothes. Come on, you're not salt nor yet sugar. A bath will do some of you good. . . ."
Still they hung back.
"Behold!" he continued, "I take the Standard of the Tenth Legion among the enemy!"
He did, and another arrow took him well in the centre of the cuirass ere the enemy, leaping
