Sergeant Bloss forged to the fore with the regimental colors. The men tore after, Jerry and nimble little Tommy Jones footing with the fastest. It was a go-as-you-please, for the field music and all. Look out! Look out! Another battery—and ready for action, too. A blast of grape whistled down the road, rattled against the arches in which the men sought cover. Steady, men! Watch sharp. He's up to mischief this time.
"Bang!" A cry arose. Bloss was flat! The grape had met him when, bearing the colors, with the color guard he had made a dash for shelter of a vacant house across the road. The tattered blue and gold banner of the Fourth was in the dust. Out charged the Mexican infantry, yelling like Indians, to capture the flag. That would be a trophy indeed. In charged the nearest men of the Fourth to rescue it. Bullets flew, hissing and spattering.
Jerry thought of nothing but the flag. Somehow, there he was, clutching at it in the hurly-burly—helped by Tommy Jones, was dragging it aside, while bullets sang in his ears and bayonets clashed over him. And entirely out of breath he was safely behind an arch, and delivering the flag to Captain Gore!
"You'll get mention for this, sir," the captain panted. "The regiment would have been eternally disgraced." He ran for the mêlée again.
"Are you hurt, Tommy?" Jerry gasped. With a word and a slap on the shoulder Corporal Finerty had taken the flag to carry it.
"No," said Tommy. "And you saved the honor of the regiment. You were there first."
