"Good!" he exclaimed, thinking aloud. "They march like veterans. Their officer conducts himself like a tried general. There's no hurry about him, but slap-dash-up smartness. If they fight as they march we've something to boast of. And with such an officer my little mission is likely to receive attention." He shut the glass with a bang and went cantering off towards the heights of the Sister Arapiles, a brilliant staff trailing out behind him. As for Tom, he held on his way without swerving. Now passing between halted regiments, now halting his own command to allow of the passage of a battery or more of guns, which went by at a trot, obliterating all about them in the clouds of dust tossed up by the wheels and the hoofs of the horses. Meanwhile the sun flashed in the distance from a forest of French bayonets, manoeuvring for position, marching this way or that, while a little later a battery took post away on the shoulder of one of the sister heights, smoke billowed from unseen muzzles, while shot tore through the summer air, and came bounding and ricochetting towards them. "Report, sir; General Wellington's orders," said Tom, halting his little corps to the front of Pack's brigade and reporting to that officer. "Ah! Reinforcements or reserve!" came the answer, while the gallant general smiled a welcome. "Smart men yours, sir. Name, may I ask, please?" "Clifford, sir, General Lord Wellington's staff, seconded for service with irregulars." And then the smile on the general's face broadened. He gripped Tom's hand warmly. "Ah! The twins, I know," he cried gaily. "The officer the French refuse to fight, eh?" Tom, with heightened colour, was forced to confess that it was so. Then he cast his eyes along the sitting lines of the Portuguese brigade, garbed in its blue, and wondered how these rough levies would conduct themselves. A moment later he was sitting erect to receive his orders. "March your command to our left, and fall in rear, to act as a reserve with the companies already detailed for that service. Smart men, Mr. Clifford, a smart lot of fellows!" There were thousands of others in Pack's brigade who repeated that opinion; for, seeing that Tom's men were standing while the remainder of the brigade were sitting, they were the observed of all observers. "Halt! Dress on the right--smartly does it," came from Tom. "Smartly does it!" Jack roared in the stentorian voice becoming to an adjutant, and--we must confess it--with an accent which brought a whimsical smile to General Pack's face. "Lively with it, boys!" shouted Howeley and Andrews together, using a language half English, a little Portuguese, and the rest nothing in particular. "Lively does it! Dress up there on the left. 'Shun! Stand at ease! Back there that swab away on the left."