"Get up an' blow out the gas!" he cried, as the boy gasped
and sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Get up!"
"This must be the Fourth of July," the drummer grunted, as
another rocket, this time a blue one, flashed across the zenith.
"What's doing?"
"They're bombardin' us with red an' blue fire," whispered Jimmie!
"Get up. I'm goin' out to see what's comin' off here. Want to go?"
"Of course I want to go," replied Peter. "I didn't come down here
to sleep my head off, did I? Shall I take my drum?"
Jimmie sat down on the ground and chuckled.
"You an' your drum!" he exclaimed, being careful to speak in a
tone which would not reach the ears of the guards.
"That is a fine drum," urged Peter, the drummer.
"What do you want to lug it around for, then?" demanded
Jimmie. "They won't let you beat on it."
"That's what I came down here for--to drum," was the
impatient reply. "Think I came down here to get my hair cut?"
"You may get it cut off under your chin before you get back
to the Great White Way," Jimmie said. "This is no joke."
"I haven't had a chance to drum since I got here," complained
the boy. "The time you heard me is the only one. That's rotten!"
"Why did they let you drum then?" asked Jimmie.
"I just rolled it out before they could stop me."
"I was wondering," Jimmie said, with a sly smile, "if these
secret service men went sleuthing with a brass band ahead of them."
"Indeed they don't!" declared the drummer, in defense of his
friends.
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