The boatswain saw Jerry staring; and he stared likewise. “Hi! What you doin’ here, young ’un?” “Just watching,” said Jerry. “Where you from?” “Vera Cruz. But I’m an American.” “Shiver my tops’ls!” uttered the boatswain; and the other sailors briefly paused to wipe their 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. The trench, higher than his crown and wider than he was tall, led obliquely toward the dunes. To have cut such a trench must have been a prodigious job――and the queer part was, that from Vera Cruz the work had not been seen. Judging by deep wheel tracks the cannon had been dragged through the trench, to the front. For a little way he met nobody. Now the shells from the city and castle were bursting all around him, well-nigh deafening him; and from a distance the American guns were replying. Next, he came to a squad of sailors, sitting in a side gallery and eating breakfast. They hailed him. “Ahoy! Where bound, young ’un?” “Nowhere,” Jerry answered. “Heave to, then, and come aboard with your papers. Where you from?” “Vera Cruz.” “Lay alongside.” So Jerry turned in. “What’s your colors? Speak sharp. Report to the admiral.” “Red, white and blue,” asserted Jerry. “Blow me, but he is American, by the cut of his jib,” one of them exclaimed. “Where’s your convoy, young sloop-o’-war?” “Nowhere. I ran away last night.” “Homeward bound in ballast. Can’t you see he’s floating clean above loading mark?” said another. “He’s empty to his keel. Fall to, my hearty. Line your lockers.”