"Beg pardon, sir, but there's officers ridden into the square," reported Andrews in his stentorian tones, thrusting a head into the room. "They've called for the officer commanding."
"That's you," declared Tom, pointing at Jack. "I'm still a muleteer; haven't rejoined yet."
But the generous Jack wouldn't have that at all. He insisted on Tom's obeying the order.
"This special job's ended," he said, "You've bagged that crowd, and mighty pleased Wellington'll be at the news. As for our arrival, why, your men acting as muleteers got to hear something after you had gone and sent along to me. I brought half a company into the city at once. Alfonso tumbled upon us almost as we were passing the yard, and—here we are, all aliv—o."
It was a strange coincidence that Wellington should be the one on this occasion to turn up unexpectedly also, but at a moment which could only be called opportune. He and his staff had attended a ball given in honour of the arrival of the British, and there he was in the yard when Tom and his friends descended, tall and austere, his slim figure standing out in the moonlight.
"You command this party!" he exclaimed in amazement, as a seeming muleteer drew himself to attention a few paces away and saluted. "You!"
"Yes, sir."
Ah! There was something familiar about the face and the figure. The voice reminded the general of a young officer he had often had in his thoughts.
"Name?" he asked curtly.