There was a business-like air about the jovial Jack Barwood on the second morning after the fall of Badajoz, a seriousness about the smart young adjutant to which his friends were unaccustomed, a furrowing of his youthful brow, and an appearance of intentness and determination which would have aroused the friendly satire of old comrades. Dressed in the smart uniform of the gallant 60th Rifles, he marched briskly along one of the quieter streets, passing as he did so a half-company of infantry escorting a batch of semi-drunken soldiers, the gallant souls amongst Wellington's army who, now that the fighting was over, had lost all sense of discipline, and, aching no doubt for the many good things to which they had been strangers for so long, had burst their way into private dwellings and had behaved like scoundrels instead of brave soldiers. Jack took the salute of a Portuguese guerrilla sentry marching sedately to and fro before a huge door, and that too of a Spaniard, one also of the band under Tom's command. "Well?" he questioned in Portuguese, his accent none of the best. "Any news? Any more callers?" "None, _señor_." "And the news?" "Good, _señor_; he lives. He will get well and strong to command us." There was a gleam of pleasure in the eyes of the two sentries as Jack spoke, while they watched him beat upon the door and enter. "A fine officer; one of the English!" exclaimed the Spaniard, who seemed to be on the best of terms with the Portuguese guerrilla, a strange occurrence in those days. "If the worst were to come to the worst----" "Yes," responded the other, in a patois both could understand, "yes, he would command. But it would not be the same; the _Señor_ Tom is one man, the _Señor_ Jack another." Inside stood the faithful Andrews and Howeley, drawn stiffly to attention, saluting their officer. Jack's serious face brightened. "Well?" he demanded again, as if he were short of words. "Better, sir, beggin' pardon," came from Andrews, with his accustomed formula demanding pardon. "Surgeon's been and gone; says as Mr. Clifford's as hard as rocks, and if he wasn't he'd have been trampled and banged to pieces. Swears as he must have fust of all been blowed skyhigh, and then charged over by a thousand of the stormers. He's takin' notice of things, sir, is Mr. Clifford. Axing fer the regiment, and you. He'd have been out of bed if I hadn't prevented him--and, my word, he were a handful!" "Ah!" ejaculated Jack, a grin rising on his solemn features. "A handful! Tom's that all the time. Wanted to get up, eh?"