The hail came from high up in a woody ravine far above their heads, and the boy shaded his eyes and said excitedly—“Here, look. It’s Joe Beane, and he’s found something good. Got it on his shoulder.”
“What is it?” cried Mrs Beane. “A kid?”
“No, it’s a bag o’ something. It’s—no, he’s hid among the trees again. It was a bag, though—looked whitish.”
“It’s flour,” cried Mrs Beane triumphantly. “Oh, Tom! We’ll have cakes to-night, and you shall carry some to the officers’ mess.”
“Give us one if I do, Mother Beane?”
“Ah, pig! I never saw such a boy to eat.”
“Well, how can I help it? I get so holler,” grumbled the boy. “It’s ’cause I’m growing.”
Five minutes later a tall manly-looking soldier came down the rugged track, with his face and hands torn and bleeding, and dropped upon his knees before his astonished wife and a group of half a dozen men who hurried up.
“Oh, Joe,” cried the woman, “what have you got there?”