"Haven't any, yet. I left Vera Cruz only last night."
"You did! Huh! That's a likely yarn. How'd you get into the lines, then?"
"Just walked. I skipped out, over the wall, and crossed the plain in the storm."
"What'd you skip out for?"
"Because I'm an American. I don't like it in Vera Cruz."
"Guess you didn't. Guess nobody does—and they'll all like it less, to-day. We're to give 'em a jolly good shaking up. Got any folks?"
"No."
"Anybody come with you?"
"No."
"Well, what's your name?"
"Jerry Cameron."
"That sounds all right. What did you do in Vera Cruz?"
"Lived there with my father until he died from yellow fever. Then I worked for two Mexicans, until I had a chance to run away."
"Mind you don't lie."
"I'm not lying. Should think you could see I'm American."
"Guess you are. Guess you're O. K., Jerry. I'm Hannibal Moss, drummer boy, Company A, Eighth United States Infantry," said the boy, with a little swagger of importance. "That's what. Best company in the best fighting regiment of the whole army. What you intend to do? Join us?"
"I'd like to, mighty well."
"Where've you been since you got in?"
