puzzles me. It's ama-a-azin'."

The boy puzzled Tom Jones the bugler boy too, who whenever he got a
chance came alongside of the mule or baggage wagon in the rear, and let
the little invalid earn his bugle on condition that he did not try to
blow it, and Tom made this an excuse for solemnly asking the same
questions over and over again.

"I say, who's your father?"

"Corporal Joe Beane," said the boy promptly; "I say, Tom, mayn't I have
a blow now?"

"What? No, of course not. You don't want to send the men at the double
up a hill like this."

"Why not? I should like to run too, only I so soon get tired."

"You shall have a blow some day. But I say, who's your mother?"

"Mrs Corporal Joe Beane," was the prompt reply, and the boy drummed the
mule's sides to make it go faster, but without effect.

"Well, where did you live before Joe Beane found you?"

"I don't know," said the boy, shaking his head, and Tom Jones stared
hard with his mouth open before asking his next question.

"I say, how's your head?"

"Quite well, thank you," said the boy; "how's yours?"

Tom scratched his as if he did not know.

"Look here," he cried, after a pause, as a happy thought crossed his
mind, and without pausing to state how his own head was, he fired off
another question:--"I say, who did you live with before we found you?"

"I don't know," said the boy, looking at him wonderingly, and as if he
felt amused by his companion's questions. "You ask mother."

"Here! Quick," whispered Tom. "Give me my bugle."

"Shan't. I want it," replied the boy coolly.

"But you must. Here's the Colonel and half the officers reined up at
the side to see us go by."

He snatched the bugle away as he spoke and threw the cord over his
shoulder, drawing himself up smartly, and keeping step with the guard.

Mrs Corporal Beane had caught sight of the group of officers they were
approaching, and with her heart in her mouth as she called it, she
hurried up to the side of the mule, catching up to it just as they came
abreast of the Colonel, a quiet stern-looking officer whose hair was
sprinkled with grey.

Nothing escaped his sharp eyes, and he pressed his horse's side and rode
close to the baggage mule.

"What boy's that, my good woman?"

"Mine, sir," said Mrs Beane huskily.

"Indeed? Is that the little fellow who was found in the burned
village?"

"Yes, sir," faltered the woman, as she gazed in the Colonel's stern
frowning count