sun, dimly shining through the drifting smoke cloud, and by his empty stomach—amazingly empty now that he thought about it. But he had not laid eyes upon Hannibal, yet, nor anybody else that he ever had seen before.
He happened to stop for a moment near a young officer. The officer was composedly standing by himself, his hands in his pockets as if he were not at all concerned about the racket at the front. He had a smooth-shaven, rather square face, dark brown hair and blue-grey eyes, and was stocky but not large. In fact, was scarcely medium. He had a thoughtful, resolute look, however—a quiet way, that is, which might make anyone hesitate to tackle him for trouble.
He gave Jerry a slow, quizzical smile.
"Well, my lad, what do you want here?"
"Will you please tell me if this is the Eighth United States Infantry?" Jerry asked.
"No. That's in the Second Brigade. This is the Fourth Infantry, First Brigade."
"Then where is the Eighth Infantry?" asked Jerry.
"The Eighth is posted with the Second Brigade, farther on. You'll see the regimental flag. What do you want with the Eighth Regiment?"
"I know a boy there. He promised to get me a job."
"What kind of a job?"
"He didn't say, but he's a drummer boy."
"You reckon on being a drummer boy? Better not. There's one with his arm shot off, already."
"Not Hannibal!" Jerry exclaimed.
"Hannibal who?"
