THE first I heard of it was when Fred came rushing into the house after
breakfast.
“The enemy!” he cried. “The enemy is upon us!”
“Where?” cried the rest of us, jumping up.
“In the battle-field, of course!” he said; and he seized his flag and
rushed out again.
We followed as quickly as we could. I put on the helmet, and Max took
the drum, and we let Toddles have the bugle this time, because he had
just tumbled down; and he had the hearth-broom, too, so he was all
right. We ran into the field, and found that the enemy had taken up a
strong position behind the old cannon. (Ours is a _real_ battle-field,
you know, and has been there ever since the war.) We formed in line,
and Fred made a flank movement, meaning to take the enemy in the rear;
but when he heard Fred coming, he charged on our line, and Toddles ran
away, but Max and I retreated in good order, and formed again behind a
rock, and began to shell him with green apples. He stopped to eat the
apples, and meanwhile Fred completed his flank movement, and falling on
the enemy’s rear, whacked it violently with a stick, waving his flag
all the time, and shouting, “Yield, caitiff! Yield, craven hound!” (I
tell him that nowadays people don’t _say_ those things in war, but he
says that Roland and Bayard did, and that what suited them will suit
him.)
[Illustration]
Well, the enemy turned suddenly on Fred, and drove him back against the
cannon: but by that time we had advanced again, and Toddles was blowing
the bugle as hard as he could, which seemed to disconcert the foe.
Fred took a flying leap from the cannon right over his back, and
putting himself at our head, rallied us for a grand charge. We rushed
forward, driving the enemy before us. A panic seized him, and he fled
in disorder; we pursued him as far as the fence, and he got through a
hole and escaped, but not before we each had a good whack at him. It
was a glorious victory! Fred made us a speech afterward from the top of
the cannon, and we all waved everything we had to wave, and vowed to
slay the invader if ever he dared to show his nose on our side of the
fence again.
So that was all!
“Who was the enemy?” Why, didn’t I say? Farmer Thurston’s pig, of
course!