The officer in
charge of the file of soldiers shook him by the shoulder, though
he was laughing too.
"Get up," he said. "What kind of a minstrel show is this?"
"Frank Shaw!" roared the drummer, paying no attention to the order.
"He got sore because I told him I'd enlisted as a drummer and lit out.
His father'll be sending after him, though. He's a good scout. Where is he now?"
"Lost," repeated Jimmie. "I don't know where he is. Just dropped into a hole."
"Not into any small hole," observed the drummer. "Are those your tents?"
he added, with a longing look at the soft blankets.
"Sure," replied Jimmie. "Want to sleep? Go to it then. You're welcome."
"You bet I will," said the drummer.
He started for one of the tents and then turned back.
"Did you see the wig-wagging awhile ago?" he asked.
"Sure I did," was the reply.
"It was brief," said the officer in charge of the file, "but, still,
long enough to convince me that we arrived here at the right time.
There is an army forming here, no one seems to know what for, and
renegade Americans are mixing in the game. The signals called for
a gathering some distance above us."
"That's the way I took it," observed Jimmie. "They are calling the
men together, I reckon, and there must be Americans in charge for
they talk United States."
"When you came up," began the officer, "did you observe the fellows
near the bottom? They seemed to me to be asking questions of the
ones up above.
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