"Hannibal Moss. He's the boy I mean."
"Oh, no; not that young rascal of the Eighth. Another boy by the name of Rome, over in the Twiggs division. Now he'll be a cripple for life."
"Will he have to go home?"
"Yes."
"Well," said Jerry, "I'd hate to have my arm shot off, but I'd hate worse to have to go home and miss all the rest of the fighting. Could I get his job, do you think?"
The officer laughed. When he laughed, his face lighted up.
"I don't believe that this army can wait until you learn to drum. We're liable to be busy from now on. Where did you come from? Where are your folks?"
"Haven't any. I've been in the naval battery."
"You have! Belong to the navy, do you?"
"No, sir. I don't seem to belong anywhere. I ran away from Vera Cruz last night. I'm an American."
"So I see. Well, how do you like the naval battery?"
"It's pretty lively," said Jerry, shaking his head. "They didn't want me, there, so I came back to the army."
"You'd better go on to the rear; go down to the beach, and some of those camp followers will take care of you."
"Are they a part of the army?"
"Not exactly," the officer grimly answered. "Their duty seems to lie in raking in the army's money as fast as they can bamboozle us. Still, the laundresses are rather necessary. I'll speak to some
