Coronation by Paul Gallico Page B

generous portion of steak, crust and kidney, straightened up to murmur something to his colleague, and in the next instant there was a slice of crackling pork and apple sauce on the plate.
    Behind the backs of the waiters the family was out of sight and out of range of this marvel. No Granny to veto, no mother to fuss, no sister to be kept quiet. And then to cap the rightness of it all, the old gent opposite said to the attendant, ‘Hm, that looks good. I wonder if I might do the same?’
    After the main course there came a pause which permitted the meal to settle into place, shaken down nicely from side to side by the swaying of the train. Outside the windows, grimed with coal dust and rain, the twilight was at hand and lights were coming on in the houses, neons blinked in the towns through which they roared, and the headlamps of cars on the roads that sometimes paralleled the track were like the shafts of searchlights.
    Yet, oddly, with his new-found freedom which would so soon end Johnny had not yet lost himself in those dreams of grandeur which the adventure had promised. For one thing there had not been time. So much had been happening too quickly. Like many of the diners, he had been caught up by the rhythm of the ballet of the waiters, the sinuosity with which they avoided contact with one another as they glided to and fro, their narrow escapes from collision, clash and disaster, one tray high, one tray low, as they passed each other, accompanied by the music of the wheels over the rails and the shrieks and wails of the locomotive.
    And, truth to tell too, there had been something else occupying Johnny’s mind. It was the precious badge in his pocket which he could feel firm against his leg. He was experiencing an overwhelming desire to look upon it again and here was his chance, away from his family. Also he found himself entertaining half a wish to show it off before the old gentleman with the tufted eyebrows.
    Therefore, he slowly withdrew it from his pocket, holding it in his lap for a moment. Warmth and perspiration had dulled it somewhat and he took his napkin and polished it furiously until it shone again in the lamplight of the restaurant car. Then he put it on the table-cloth beside his plate and looked down, entranced by the beauty and content of it. The regimental badge, insignia of rank, courage and gallantry, lost from the cap of a proud officer, presented to him by a demigod on a white horse because for one moment their eyes had met in a thrall and there had been an understanding, was his.
    Old Tufted Eyebrows, too, was staring down at the shining metal and beneath the bald, pink skull there raced a thousand memories. ‘Where did you get that, boy?’ he rumbled.
    Johnny took his gaze from the glittering talisman and looked into the piercing, bright blue eyes of the old gentleman.
    ‘A gentleman – an officer gave it to me, sir.’
    ‘Hm,’ said the old gentleman, ‘that’s very strange. I can’t think of an officer who would part with a thing like that. Are you sure? Do you know what that is?’
    Johnny replied, ‘Yes, sir. It’s the badge of the Royal Wessex. I know them all.’ And then as understanding of what the old gentleman was driving at dawned on him, ‘Oh, it wasn’t one of them that gave it to me. It was another, but I don’t know what he was. He was on a white horse and wore a black uniform and there was a white feather in his cocked hat.’
    And when he saw how interested the old gentleman was, and the light in his young blue eyes, the story fairly tumbled out of Johnny: the expedition to the Coronation, the false tickets, their attempts to see at least something, his own love for soldiers and his wish to become one, the affair at the barricade, and the plumed, mounted officer who had upheld the policeman in his duty and then so strangely reached into his pocket and presented him with the badge.
    His companion listened to the narrative and seemed not at all surprised at it,