Adventure Magazine Cover, October 30, 1924 — page 149: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Best Bugler in the World 139 sounding raucous reveille, Gray was again greeted with news from the bugler of the guard. “Hello, dad,’’ began the man, striving to be tactful, “yow’ re the best bugler in the world now.” | Gray halted, startled, knowing what the news would be. “Old Cart-before-the-horse cashed in some time last night.”’ Gray was not shocked as he had been at the news of Cart’s crime. He had felt that this would be the best way out. There was another consolation too—now, he would get to blow Taps over his comrade’s grave, whereas if Cart had been taken away to some distant prison the chances of doing so would: have been slight. And the chief would’ know—Gray felt that with all his being—Cart would hear and know about Taps being sounded and the promise kept. Gray at once sought and obtained leave of absence for the day. He did not wish to remain ‘around the barracks and be an object of pity, and he wished to go off and muse alone and practise Taps for final per- fection. He went to a near-by park, behind thé garrison, and found a shady place and sat him ‘down to the gentle practise of the army’s favorite—it’s sentimentality and its hymn, that ancient sweet wail called Taps. Fades the light, and afar goeth day; Cometh night, and a star Leadeth all, speedeth all to their rest. Friend, good night. Must thou go When the day and the night leave me so? - Fare thee well, day is done, night is on. Sometimes he could not blow it all through for a hurt coming up in his throat. While he dreamed there in the shade, and saw the past year by year unfold and fold again, and while at intervals he practised low, a man came from a house not far away, a retired soldier, and spoke to him. “Hello, Gray,” said he. ‘“‘T’ll bet a piece o’ tin money you’re practisin’ Taps for old Trumpeter Cart.” “That’s what,” answered Gray shortly. “T ‘guessed it! Don’t you know you'll never sound Taps at his grave? He’s a mili- tary convict. Dishonorable soldiers don’t get a military funeral.” Gray knew it, knew it as well as any man, but he had forgotten. This was the worst thing yet—the old chief not even to get an honorable funeral, like burying a once great man in the potter’s corner without a friend to shed a tear, only a thousand times worse. His breathing was labored. ‘‘Reminds me,” began the retired man, “of a fellow in the Ninth Infantry ——” But old Gray had no ear for garrulity. He staggered to his feet and moved away, like Napoleon sunk in despair. The national cemetery lay two or three miles distant. Down in one corner were a few ill-marked graves where men without military honor had been put away without the sound of bugle or firing of gun. Some- thing drew Gray there. He looked through the woven-wire fence at the long rows of low white grave-stones and the ‘‘little green tents” where the sol- diers slept. He shortened his gaze, and right at his feet through the fence beheld the short row of mounds marked merely by boards. A new one would be dug there to- day, and tomorrow Chief Cart Gray turned away. He climbed the steep hillside right at hand and found another shady place near the summit. The hill was rocky and dry and nothing intervened to shut out the dismal corner. He would sit here the next day, when the hurrying squad lowered the body, and keep his promise with soft-blown Taps. And he resumed his practising and his lonely musing. When Chief Musician Gray returned to the garrison in the evening he learned that a regimental practise march had been or- dered for the next day. He applied for per- mission to miss it and remain for Cart’s burial. Pitying his sorrow, nobody objected. He was told at the guard-house that a detail of men to fill the grave would go out with a Q. M. wagon and the body at ten o’clock the next forenoon. Gray was on the scene at half-past nine the following morning.. He did not descend to the cemetery but remained on the hill- side out of plain sight. He had his precious dented old bugle, polished in every visible inch, even within the bell, to a scintilat- ing sheen. The chief, down there, would know! The gray bugler sat down. By moving a little from behind the brushy clump he could see when the squad lowered the body. To make certain of this he moved over a yard—and was surprized to see already a fresh mound there. He got up and went racing to a last-chance saloon over on a Ccomicbooks.c© in