“You see,” went on the middy, interrupting, “we’ve got to stick aboard here till this captain gets ready to put about for Boca del Sierras. He’s obstinate, and a fighter from ’way back--you can see that in his eye. Now, here’s the proposition. If we get licked at Santa Anna we’ll all go to the bottom together. That chap would sink his ship before he’d be captured. On the other hand, if we win out we’ll help to smash the insurgents, do our country a good turn, and, at the same time, insure our getting back to the ship.” Looked at in this light, the thing which they all secretly wished to do became of necessity the logical, right thing to go forward with. So they all agreed, after some more discussion. It now only remained for the captain to give his consent to having his gunners drilled and officered by the Americans. The task of asking him this was taken out of their hands. On his return from forward, the tall, Quixotic-looking officer, after some humming and hawing, turned to the middy. “I have a great favor to ask of you, sir,” he began. “My men--that is----” “You want us to show them how to handle the guns!” burst out Midshipman Stark. “Yes. But how did you guess it? I----” “That is all right, sir, we’ll begin at once.” “What, at once! Ah! I forgot you are American, and do not wait for to-morrow. Well, gentlemen, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and I----” “Oh, never mind that, sir. If we don’t teach your men how to stick by the guns, we’ll never see the United States again, anyhow. Now, then, Stanley, I’ll appoint you in command of the gun deck, with full charge. Strong and Taylor, you are on an equal footing with Stanley, but obey his orders.” The Dreadnought Boys grinned at this equivocal sort of a commission. “I suppose we can have anything we want, sir. We’ve got to have carte blanche, you know,” spoke up the middy. “Yes, anything, gentlemen, anything!” exclaimed the captain gratefully. “All right, sir. Stanley, anything you want for your work?” The boatswain’s mate had been gazing attentively at a group of the dusky-skinned crew. Without attempting to set the guns in shape or clean them after the brisk engagement off Miraflores, they were sitting about talking. “Yes, sir,” rejoined the boatswain’s mate, turning from his disgusted scrutiny, “a service revolver and ammunition to match, please, sir.”