“Pardon me again, Sir, but isn’t that slightly old-fashioned?  I know that theoretically you have reason on your side; but then in these days of the latter end of the nineteenth century, we must not he bound too tightly to precedent.”

The Captain bit his moustache for the fourth time, and then again gave the order.  But there was no response.  The Company moved not a muscle.

“This is mutiny!” cried the officer.  “I will break everyone of you.  I will put you all in the cells; and in the orderly room to-morrow morning, we will soon see if there is such a thing as discipline.”

“Discipline!” repeated the Sergeant.  “Beg your pardon, Sir, but I don’t think the men understand what you mean.  The word is not to be found in the most recent dictionaries.”

And certainly things seemed to be reaching a climax, for however much the Commander might shout, not one of the rank and file stirred an inch.  It was at this moment that a cloaked figure approached the parade-ground.  The new-comer strode about with a bearing that suggested one accustomed to receive obedience.

“What is the matter?” asked the Disguised One.

“I can’t get my men to obey me,” explained the Captain.  “I have been desiring them to take open order for the last ten minutes, and they remain as they were.”

“What have they to say in their defence?” was the inquiry of the Man in the Cloak.

“He won’t let us write to the newspapers!” was heard from the ranks.

“Is this really so?” asked the new-comer, in a tone more of sorrow than of anger.

“Well, Sir,” returned the Captain, “as it is a rule of the Service that no communications shall be sent to the Press, I thought that—­”

“You had no right to think, Sir!” was the sharp reply.  “Are you so ignorant that you do not know that it is a birth-right of a true-born Briton to air his opinions in the organs of publicity?  You will allow the men to go to their quarters at once, that they may state their grievances on paper.  They are at perfect liberty to write what they please, and they may rest assured that their communications will escape the grave of the waste-paper basket.”

Thus encouraged, the Company dismissed without further word of command.

“And who may you be?” asked the Captain, with some bitterness.  “Are you the Commander-in-Chief?”

“I am one infinitely more powerful,” was the reply.  And then the speaker threw off his disguise-cloak, and appeared in morning-dress.  “Behold in me the Editor of an influential Journal!”

A week later the Captain had sent in his papers, and every man in the Company he had once commanded wore the stripe of a Lance Corporal.  And thus was the power of the Press once again sufficiently vindicated.

* * * * *

The Battle of the bards; or, the lists for the laurels.