eatin' off'n golden platters. Come along, white boy. Ain't got nuffin' but cold cohn pone an' salt hoss, but I'll feed you. You gwine to jine the ahmy?"
"Hope to," said Jerry.
"What's yo' name?"
"Jerry Cameron."
"Any kin to the No'th Car'liny Camerons?"
"I don't know. I haven't any folks."
"Sho', now! Dem No'th Car'liny Camerons are mighty uppity people. Dat Lieutenant Grant, he a fine man, too. But I'm 'tached to Fust Lieutenant Smith, Fo'th United States Infantry. If you get 'tached to Lieutenant Grant, I'm uppitier than you are, remember. When you work 'round with me you got to 'bey my ohders. I'm yo' s'perior offercer."
"All right, Pompey," Jerry agreed.
He munched the cornbread and salt beef, and Pompey chattered on.
"Listen to dem guns talk! Oof! Talkin' a way right through dem walls, laike the horn ob Jericho. Mebbe to-morrow Gin'ral Scott wave his sword, an' Lieutenant Smith an' me an' all the rest de ahmy, we fix bagonets an' go rampagin' 'crost dat patch ob lebbel ground an' capture all dem Mexicans. What you gwine to do den?"
"Go, too, I guess," said Jerry.
"We don't 'low no nuncumbatants along when we-all charge," Pompey asserted. "Ob co'se I got to stay with Massa Smith. I'se part the ahmy. But when dose cannon balls come a-sayin' 'Hum-m-m, where dat little white boy?', what you gwine to do den?"
"I'd dodge 'em," said Jerry.
