The Drum heard that from the neighbors' wives.
"Don't go home, Peter," cried the street boys. "If you sleep in the garret, there'll be a fire in the house, and the fire-drum will have to be beaten."
"Look out for the drumsticks," replied Peter; and, small as he was, he ran up boldly, and gave the foremost such a punch in the body with his fist, that the fellow lost his legs and tumbled over, and the others took their legs off with themselves very rapidly.
The town musician was very genteel and fine. He was the son of the royal plate-washer. He was very fond of Peter, and would sometimes take him to his home; and he gave him a violin, and taught him to play it. It seemed as if the whole art lay in the boy's fingers; and he wanted to be more than a drummer—he wanted to become musician to the town.
"I'll be a soldier," said Peter; for he was still quite a little lad, and it seemed to him the finest thing in the world to carry a gun, and to be able to march one, two—one, two, and to wear a uniform and a sword.
"Ah, you learn to long for the drum-skin, drum, dum, dum!" said the Drum.
"Yes, if he could only march his way up to be a general!" observed his father; "but before he can do that, there must be war."
"Heaven forbid!" said his mother.
"We have nothing to lose," remarked the father.
"Yes, we have my boy," she retorted.