V
IN THE NAVAL BATTERY
"Listen!" Hannibal cried.
He had sharp ears. The beat of drums and the shrill of fifes could be faintly heard, sounding from the rear.
"That means us. It's the Eighth Infantry march, as a warning signal. Expect I'm wanted. Golly, hope I haven't missed musicians' call. Old Peters—he's drum major—will be mad as a hornet. A drummer never gets any rest, anyhow. Good-by. See you again. You look me up."
Away ran Hannibal, and most of the soldiers followed.
"More trench work," they grumbled.
The place seemed very empty. Jerry hesitated, and wandered after. Before he got to the camp he met a double file marching out to tap of drum, their muskets on their shoulders. Hannibal and a fifer led, behind a sergeant. Hannibal wore his drum, suspended from a pair of whitened cross-belts that almost covered his chest. He gave Jerry a wink, as he passed, sturdily shuttling his drumsticks.
Jerry fell in behind, at a respectful distance; soon he lost the file and the sound of the drum, but he kept on, guided by wheel tracks. Next he had arrived among the Volunteers again, where they were laughing and lounging as before, except that these were a different batch, at this particular spot—grimy as if they had just come out of the trenches,
