He had been sheltered for years in the Cameron home, and was not so resourceful as his companions, not so ready to take advantage of any point which might occur in such a rough-and-tumble game as was now in progress.
Jimmie's fear was that Fremont had been captured by officers, and would be taken back to New York and thrust into the Tombs to await the action of the grand jury, based on the recovery or death of Mr.Cameron.

This would be fatal to all his hopes.

While the boy pondered and fretted over the matter, the long roll of a drum came around a cliff-corner, and then a file of ragged soldiers, or what seemed to be such, showed in the moonlight, with a diminutive drummer-boy, pounding for dear life, not far in the rear.
In the meantime the two who were in Jimmie's thoughts were making their way down the slope with such speed and caution as they were able to manage.
It was very rough going in the darkness, and more than once Frank received a bump which effectually banished all inclination to sleep.
At last he sat down on a ledge and called out to Nestor.
"Dig in! Walk your head off!" Nestor halted and looked back.
"What's doing ?" he asked.
"I'm flabbergasted," was the reply.

"How do you think you're goin' to get back up the hill ?" Nestor pointed to a point of flame a little lower down.
"It is only a short ways now," he said.
Frank grunted and arose to his feet.
"They ought to put in elevators," he grumbled.
The boys walked for perhaps half an hour longer and then drew up near to the point of fire which Nestor had pointed out.
"Now what ?" demanded Frank.
"I want to see who they are.

I'm expecting friends here," was the laughing reply.