“Pompey’ll teach you. He’ll take eggs from a setting hen. If Lieutenant Smith turns up and asks who you are, you tell him you’re attached to the Fourth Infantry as chief forager for Lieutenant U. S. Grant.” “Sha’n’t you need me any more to-day?” Jerry asked. “No. You can report in the morning. You may sleep in my bunk to-night unless I’m there first. That will keep the fleas from getting too hungry.” “I’d like to find the Eighth Infantry and tell Hannibal Moss I’m in the army.” “Go ahead.” Lieutenant Grant hurried on. He mounted a horse and galloped for the beach. Jerry went seeking the Eighth Infantry. The sun was much lower in the west. The bombardment had dwindled. It was said that ammunition for the mortars and other guns had run short until more could be landed through the heavy surf from the ships. The firing of the naval battery guns had ceased entirely. By the time that Jerry had found the Eighth Infantry the sun was setting and throughout the camp the company cooks were preparing supper. A detachment of sailors marched up from the beach, at their rolling gait, to relieve the crews in the battery. They were given a cheer. “Hello, there!” It was Hannibal, again. He stood up and beckoned. Jerry gladly went over to him. “Where you going?” “Looking for you, is all.” “Good. Wait a minute, till after retreat. I’ve got to beat retreat.” “Do you have to retreat?” Jerry blurted, aghast. “Naw; not that kind. Not for Old Fuss and Feathers. Cracky, but you’re green! It’s evening roll-call and parade.” Through the camp drums were tapping, fifes squeaking, horns blaring. Officers were striding, buttoning their jackets and buckling on their swords. Soldiers were seizing muskets from the stacks and forming lines under their gruff sergeants. Hannibal himself ran and grabbed his drum from a stack of muskets, and disappeared around a tent. Sergeants were calling the company rolls. And in a few moments here came the regiment’s band, and the fifers and drummers, in a broad, short column, playing a lively march tune; led by a whopping big drum major, in a long scarlet coat, gay with gilt braid and cord, on his head a shako which with nodding plume looked to be three feet high, in his hand a tasseled staff. The music formed on a level space, the band to the fore, then a rank of fifers, then a rank of drummers――with all the little drummer boys bursting through their tightly fitting uniforms of red-braided snug jackets and sky-blue long trousers flaring at the bottoms, their swords by their sides, their drums slung from their white cross-belts, their caps tilted saucily. Hannibal was there, rolling his drumsticks as lustily as the others. The regiment followed, marching by companies, the stars and stripes and the regimental flag of blue and gold at the head. The companies changed direction into line three ranks deep, on the left of the music. “Eyes――right! Right――dress!” It was funny to see those eyes. “Front!”