"A general? Why not?" Tom asked himself as he rolled himself in a blanket. "I'm young, young for the rank of lieutenant. I'm in the midst of a glorious campaign. And owing to the fact that I can speak Portuguese, French, and Spanish I'm to be engaged on special service. Why not a general one of these days?" He forgot to look on the other side. Forgot, with the usual impetuosity and carelessness of youth, to reckon the risks to be run in achieving such honours. But then Tom did not realize what was before him. To begin with, he reckoned without José de Esteros, his most unloving cousin, whom he imagined still in England. CHAPTER XI On Active Service A crisp, cool breeze straight from the sea swept through the streets of Oporto and fanned the brows of three horsemen who were riding in from the country about ten in the morning some six weeks after the events already narrated. A brilliant autumn sun shed its rays far and wide, causing white walls and pavements to flash back shafts of light which were almost blinding in their intensity, while the russet hues of the foliage looked wonderfully bright and enchanting. "Oporto at last!" exclaimed one of the three horsemen, a youth dressed in the uniform of a staff officer. "At last!" "And none too soon," came from his companion, riding at his knee. "None too soon, Tom, my boy. Army rations are good enough when there's nothing else to be had, but give me the sight of a town now and again. There'll be dinners to be had, there'll be invitations galore to the houses of the big people, dances, fêtes, everything you can wish for or imagine." Jack laughed uproariously, the happy laugh of a youth who is bent on pleasure, and who is ready to enjoy all that comes his way. For this was Jack Barwood, Ensign, of the 60th Rifles, attached for special service to Lieutenant Tom Clifford's command. And the youth who looked so well in the uniform of a staff officer was none other than our hero. Respectfully in rear of them, precisely three horses' length behind, rode the rifleman Andrews, as erect as any cavalry soldier trained, his eyes glistening at the prospect of a rest in Oporto, a bed to sleep in, and all the entertainment a city promised. "And work," interjected Tom, when Jack had finished speaking. "All play and no work makes Jack a bad soldier. Eh?" Jack made reply by snatching at his sword and half-drawing it, while he glared at his comrade. However it was all fun, and only a symptom of good spirits. Jack was now in clover; but for that chance meeting with our hero and the adventure which had followed he would have been along with his regiment, then scattered by companies, and his lot would have been very different. Instead he was appointed for special service, than which there is nothing more eagerly sought by an officer. He was Tom's right-hand man, his adviser if you like--though Lieutenant Riley smiled satirically when that was suggested--his adjutant when engaged with irregulars.