“’Spec’ you set big sto’ on bein’ a drummer.”
“Shouldn’t wonder, Pompey.”
“Dis chile’s so rich now he can be a gin’ral,” Pompey chuckled. “He don’t have to sojer common. Yes, suh; Gin’ral Scott am a great strateegis’.”
The baggage train had not come in yet from Plan del Rio, and the camp was only a plain bivouac of blankets and haversack rations. Having little to do, Jerry was cautiously trying out his drum, when Lieutenant Grant spoke to him.
“You’ve won a drum, I see.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you play it?”
“A little, is all; but I’m learning.”
“You want to be a drummer boy, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”