With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

by F. S. Brereton

"Ready, sir?" he asked.

Tom nodded.

"Then heave," called Andrews, tugging at one of the legs of the dead animal. The troopers threw themselves upon the carcass at once, and in a trice it had been dragged aside.

"Now out with them 'ere horses," commanded Andrews hoarsely. "Beg pardon, sir, but I don't know what you're up to. This is certain though: there's not a drop of water in the church."

"There's heaps where we're going," answered Tom laconically. "Heaps."

"And grub, beggin' pardon again, sir?"

"Could you eat ham, well-cooked ham, Andrews?" asked Tom, without a smile.

"Ham! Bust me——!" began the rifleman.

"And preserves. Perhaps the wine of Portugal wouldn't be good enough for you, though. There's at least one barrel of it where we're going."

Andrews' eyes shone with expectation. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Food and drink, sir," he gasped, as if the news were too good. "Plenty of it, too. Why—bust me!—--"