"To think of being in the army as long as I have been, just for this fight. And to think of being left here in this hell-hole all summer, and missing all the fun in Cuba, not to speak of the glory and the game. We haven't had a war for so long that glory will come easy now, and anybody who does anything will be promoted. But it's missing the fight--the fight--that worries me," and Rivers shook his head from side to side dejectedly. "If my company goes, I'm all right; but if it doesn't, there is no chance for me if I go away. I shall lose my last chance of slipping in somewhere. I swear I'd rather go as a private than not at all." This idea gave Crittenden a start, and made him on the sudden very thoughtful. "Can you get me in as a private at the last minute?" he asked presently. "Yes," said Rivers, quickly, "and I'll telegraph you in plenty of time, so that you can get back." Crittenden smiled, for Rivers's plan was plain, but he was thinking of a plan of his own. Meanwhile, he drilled as a private each day. He was ignorant of the Krag-Jorgensen, and at Chickamauga he had made such a laughable exhibition of himself that the old Sergeant took him off alone one day, and when they came back the Sergeant was observed to be smiling broadly. At the first target practice thereafter, Crittenden stood among the first men of the company, and the captain took mental note of him as a sharpshooter to be remembered when they got to Cuba. With the drill he had little trouble--being a natural-born horseman--so one day, when a trooper was ill, he was allowed to take the sick soldier's place and drill with the regiment. That day his trouble with Reynolds came. All the soldiers were free and easy of speech and rather reckless with epithets, and, knowing how little was meant, Crittenden merely remonstrated with the bully and smilingly asked him to desist. "Suppose I don't?" Crittenden smiled again and answered nothing, and Reynolds mistook his silence for timidity. At right wheel, a little later, Crittenden squeezed the bully's leg, and Reynolds cursed him. He might have passed that with a last warning, but, as they wheeled again, he saw Reynolds kick Sanders so violently that the boy's eyes filled with tears. He went straight for the soldier as soon as the drill was over. "Put up your guard." "Aw, go to----" The word was checked at his lips by Crittenden's fist. In a rage, Reynolds threw his hand behind him, as though he would pull his revolver, but his wrist was caught by sinewy fingers from behind. It was Blackford, smiling into his purple face. "Hold on!" he said, "save that for a Spaniard." At once, as a matter of course, the men led the way behind the tents, and made a ring--Blackford, without a word, acting as Crittenden's second. Reynolds was the champion bruiser of the regiment and a boxer of no mean skill, and Blackford looked anxious. "Worry him, and he'll lose his head. Don't try to do him up too quickly."