“May O’Neil go along, sir?” asked Phil, attempting to conceal from the quiet captain his boyish excitement. “Yes, certainly,” assented the captain amusedly. “You seem to like O’Neil.” “Like him, sir,” cried he, in admiration, “why he is the finest type of American sailorman I have ever met.” “I am glad you have so much discernment,” the captain said smilingly; “it is rare at your age. That is also my opinion of him.” He reached down, and from his desk, took up a sheet of oiled paper, with an engraving at the top and the seal of the United States across its face. “I believe,” he said generously, “that he would rather have this at your hands than mine. Give this to boatswain’s mate O’Neil.” Phil ran from the cabin in joyful haste, after thanking the captain as if he himself had received the promotion. He found O’Neil in his quarters and pressed the paper upon him. The new boatswain’s mate’s eyes opened wide with surprise, and his face was flushed with delight. “I congratulate you, O’Neil,” Phil cried. “You deserve it, and more too.” O’Neil’s voice was husky with manly emotion, as he thanked the young officer. “I shan’t forget your kindness,” he said gratefully. A few hours later three travelers passed along the narrow streets of La Boca in the direction of the suburbs. Each carried a small bundle in one hand and a climbing stick in the other. Their clothes were old and worn as if their owners were accustomed to much tramping over a rough country. They passed without hindrance through the successive lines of defense of the loyal army. Walking Englishmen were frequent and their costumes bore out the part. Leaving the city behind them, they traveled along the military road, running parallel to the sea. Its sides were lined with high tropical vegetation, with here and there a hut nestling in a clearing, but all were deserted. They were between the lines of the two armies. A quarter of a mile down the road a dark object came into view, standing like an abandoned wagon in the middle of the sun-baked road-bed. “Artillery,” Phil cried; “now look out for a challenge.” “I hope they don’t shoot first and challenge afterward, like Cuban guerrillas,” said O’Neil calmly. As the three came nearer the solitary cannon, pointing its frowning muzzle menacingly toward them, several figures suddenly appeared from the shade of a hut by the roadside, and peered at the approaching Americans. One then left the group and advanced slowly toward them. The travelers saw by his uniform that he was an officer. “Good-afternoon,” Phil called politely in Spanish, taking off his hat. The officer saluted and gazed questioningly at the three men. “What is your business here?” he inquired brusquely in his native tongue. “Oh, we are just out for a tramp,” Phil replied lightly. “You fellows are so persistent in your siege, that our legs were beginning to get soft in the city, so we thought we’d come out and stretch them.”