He soon fired the ambition of the other boys, and in a week had organized a company—or "squad," as he decided it really was—composed of ten raw recruits and a band of two, mustered under the banner of the Raleigh Reds.
They drilled faithfully day after day under the command of their enthusiastic Sergeant, and the discordant sounds from the fife and drum became a nuisance to the neighborhood.
But now that the novelty of the drill was wearing off, the boys began to pine for active service, and wild plans of campaigns, with long marches, bloody battles, and glorious victories, floated through Tommy's brain, as he nightly revolved the future of the Raleigh Reds.
"Well, how are we going to celebrate the Fourth?" asked Lilly Atkins, throwing down the knife in disgust, after failing ignominiously in the delicate operation known as "eating oysters." "It's no fun just marching at the tail end of a parade."
"We might make another raid on old Jones's cattle," suggested Herbert Day; "we know a lot more tactics and manœuvres now."
"Not much, unless Tommy teaches us some slick barbed-wire-fence drill," said Dick. "I'm on my last pair of trousers."
"That was a pretty big fizzle," Tommy said, shaking his head. "And how they did jolly me at home! Did you ever hear the poem my sister wrote about it?"
"No; what was it?"
"Well, it was sort of like 'Half a League,' only different, about us, instead of the 'Six Hundred.' It's pretty good," modestly.