“Green grow the rushes, O! Green grow the rushes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spend Are spent among the lasses, O!” That was the chorus of one group nearest to Jerry, as he sidled through the camp. It was not much of a song, although as good as most of the Mexican songs. He saw a flag, of blue and gold, which said “First Tennessee Volunteers.” A soldier was shaking it out from its folds. “Well, I’m in the army, anyway,” Jerry thought, to himself. “But I guess I’ll go on, to the beach, and see what’s there.” So although the men hailed him, as the sailors had, only in different language, he shook his head and did not stop. Pretty soon he came to a cleaner camp, within easy sight of the surf beyond the dunes, and of the ships at anchor off Sacrificios. There were many soldiers, here, too, but more orderly and better clothed. The camp appeared to stretch clear to the beach; and while he was wandering and gazing, somebody challenged him. It was another boy, in uniform――a red-headed boy, spick and span and as smart as a new whip. “Hey, you! What you doing?” He wore a tight blue jacket and lighter blue trousers; the front of the jacket was crossed by a lot of red braid, a high collar held his chin up, upon his head was perched a jaunty blue, red-decorated round cap with leather visor, and a short sword hung at his right thigh. “Nothing special,” Jerry answered back. “Come over till I investigate. We don’t allow camp followers in the lines.” Jerry went over. “I’m not a camp follower,” he retorted. The soldiers who heard, laughed. “Then what’s your regiment?” “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?” “Out there with the sailors and the big guns. That’s where I landed. But they sent me back.” “Oh, that’s the navy battery. What’d you think of it?” “They’re the biggest guns I ever saw.”