Jack’s regiment was brigaded with others to form the Reserve, and the men had to curb their impatience for some hours before their turn to march arrived. It was a bitterly cold day, that 15th of December, and, having performed all their immediate duties, Jack and his fellow subalterns were stamping up and down before their quarters, wrapped in long cloaks, and doing their best to warm their blood. They had been so busy since Jack’s arrival that there had been no time to get from him a full account of his recent adventures, but now, in their enforced idleness, they kept up a fire of questions as to where he had been and what he had seen, and how it was that he had had, as they put it, all the luck. Jack found that the simplest means to escape the bombardment was to give a consecutive account of the events at Rueda and Valdestillos, to which his chums listened with interest, scarcely remarking the modesty with which the narrator minimized his own share in the bustling incidents. "That boy Pepito, you see," he said at one point in his narrative, "is not quite the thorn in the flesh we all supposed he was going to be. In fact, he has the strangest knack of turning up at odd moments when he can be of use—" "A regular god in the machine!" said Shirley. "A familiar spirit, I’d call him," said Pomeroy. "I never had much faith in witchcraft, but upon my word I shall soon begin to believe that you’re in league with the powers of darkness, and no wonder you have such confounded luck!" "Talk of the—" cried Smith suddenly. "Look at that!" The subalterns, looking in the direction pointed out by Smith’s stretched forefinger, saw, at the other end of the street, a strange cavalcade approaching. Between two stalwart troopers of the 18th Light Dragoons rode a picturesque little figure on a gaily-caparisoned mule, the rider cocking his head aloft with a consequential air that was irresistibly comic. Behind tramped a crowd of foot-soldiers, and the rear was brought up by a troop of dragoons. "By George!" cried Pomeroy, "it’s Pepito himself, riding in like a conqueror. "And the French prisoners of Rueda behind him," added Jack. "I’m glad to see the boy. Giles, go and see where they halt, and bring the little beggar to me." In a few minutes Giles returned, bringing not only Pepito but a group of four rather dilapidated-looking Spaniards. "My friends of the Olmedo inn," thought Jack, recognizing them with a chuckle. "Well, Pepito, so you’ve turned up again, eh?" "Sí, Señor," answered the gipsy with his captivating smile. "And with me the four noble Spaniards, Señor." "So I see. You seem in high feather. You’d better tell me what has happened since I saw you last on the way to Medina."