A CLEVER DISGUISE
Jack could still have been levelled flat with the proverbial feather, for his chum had been absent from the camp exactly a week, and Alfonso with him. It had been given out that they had ridden for Oporto, and they had, in fact, taken the road for that place. But some miles from the camp both had stripped off their uniforms and had donned the dress worn by muleteers, of whom thousands were employed with both British and French armies. Then they had been joined by a faithful servant of Alfonso, one who accompanied him on this campaign, who handed over to the two lads half a dozen native carts, together with their teams of mules.
"He'll stable our horses away on Father's estate," explained Alfonso. "We can stow our uniforms in two of the carts, and then, if we want to change back to ourselves at any time, we have the things near us. Now?"
"Back to the camp," said Tom, "There we pick up four of our fellows who were on the sick list till last week. They've been reported as fit only for light duty, and so, at my suggestion, are to be allowed to continue with the army as drivers. They're trusty fellows, and may be relied on not to give us away to friends or enemies. Back we go, Alfonso."
As bold as brass—for the handkerchief swathed round the brows and the wide sombrero hat were disfiguring and an excellent disguise—the two drove their teams into camp, and bivouacked close to Tom's own regiment. And here they were, on the road, obstructing that same corps, and causing the irate and lofty Jack to bubble over.
"Of all the blessed cheek!" he began to gasp, faintly recognizing Tom. "You gave me an awful start. To think of you being alongside us, giving me lip too. That beats everything. But——what's up?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper, leaning over from his saddle. "What's this disguise for? And why march with the British army?"
Tom waved him away. "Look out," he said hurriedly. "Those muleteers are looking this way. Pretend to row me; threaten me with your whip. I'll sneak away in the usual Spanish manner."
Cunning eyes were, indeed, fixed upon them at that moment. A man amongst a batch of drivers passing with his team just then recognized Jack as the leader of irregulars, one with whom, had that young officer been able to guess it, he had already had dealings. But the scene immediately following disarmed all suspicion. Jack raged at the man standing near him. His whip went up over his shoulder, and he slashed out fiercely, cleverly missing his friend. As for Tom, he scowled and muttered loudly, while his hand went to an imaginary stiletto.