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.