brows and grin. "A bloomin' American from Very Cruz." He saluted the officer. "Recruit for the navy, sir. What shall I do with him?"
"Send him to the rear. This is no place for boys," rapped the officer. "What's your name, lad?"
"Jerry Cameron."
"How did you get in here?"
"I ran away from Vera Cruz last night. I don't belong there."
"Too much Yankee music in that city, eh?"
"Yes, sir. It's awful."
"Well, it will be worse. If you've come to join the band you'll have to go to the rear. We can't take care of you here. Things will open lively in a short time, now."
And as if to prove his words the air shook, a dull boom sounded, a louder boom rolled from the dunes. Vera Cruz had awakened to action again.
"You follow that trench and keep going," the officer ordered. "March, before your head's blown off."
"Boom—Bang!" A great mass of sand and brush spouted up not fifty yards to the front, and the shock sent everyone staggering. A shell from Vera Cruz had landed near indeed. "Boom—Bang!" That was another. The Mexican batteries were trying.
"Handspikes, there! Put a block under that transom, bo's'n," barked the officer, never noticing.
"Aye, aye, sir!" The men jumped to their work. Jerry turned and headed back through the trench. He was glad that he was not to be in Vera Cruz this day. Those guns looked mean.
