pickets, posted at the edge of town. There in the west were snowy Popocatepetl and Iztaccihautl, sentinels over the Halls of Montezuma. And there, on this side of them, was the city of Puebla of the Angels, sparkling in the afternoon sun.
Then, as his eyes traveled, they lighted upon a real dust cloud, slightly in the north, between Amozoc and Puebla.
The cloud was advancing; yes, and rapidly. Whew! Cavalry, sure as shooting. Mexican lancers! No other horsemen could be expected from that direction, not in such a mass. The outpost guards had not seen them yet.
Like lightning Jerry twitched his drumsticks from his belt, jerked his drum to the fore, and beat the long roll. R-r-r-r-r-r-r! R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r! And R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r! The stunning noise in the hollow belfry deafened him. It must have fallen like a thunder clap upon the ears of the camp. As he plied the drumsticks with his two hands he saw that the grouped specks had frozen stone still, as if staring about to locate the alarm.
He didn't delay. Down he slid, down the ladder, never caring how he landed—and he landed plump into somebody's arms. They were Lieutenant McClellan's.
"You young rascal! What's the meaning of this racket? Who authorized you to?"
"The enemy, sir!" Jerry panted, not waiting. "They're coming."
"How do you know?"
"I saw their dust"
"Where?"
