A boy was riding down the road in the opposite direction. He was mounted on a thin, slow-moving mare, of an indistinct color, which might have been taken for a bay, yellow or sorrel. The boy was barefooted, had on a straw hat, rode on a folded sheepskin instead of a saddle, held an empty bag before him, and certainly did not look very warlike.
"Halt!" cried Sergeant Swords, drawing an old, rusty sword from its sheath and waving it in the air.
"Halt!" cried Corporal Grimm, drawing a many-barreled pistol, commonly known as a pepper-box, which he flourished in a threatening manner.
"Halt!" again cried both, "or we will fire."
The boy, being overawed by numbers, felt constrained to pull up the thin mare.
"Advance and give the countersign!" said Corporal Grimm.
"Shet up, Grimm! I command this squad," said Sergeant Swords.
Grimm chewed his pigtail in silence. In the meantime the boy seemed undecided whether to fly or to stand his ground, though his face betrayed a strong inclination in favor of the former proposition.
"Who comes there?" said Sergeant Swords, bringing his rusty sword to a salute.