“What kind is yours?” asked Owen of the Corporal.
“I don’t know,” grunted Big McConnell, his mouth full. “All pie tastes alike to me. What’s the Captain doing?”
This meant Allan, who had slipped off with his camera. McConnell, who went to reconnoitre, reported that Allan was taking a group of soldiers. The Corporal looked out. “The old guard,” he said.
“What is the ‘old guard’?” asked Owen.
“They are changing the guard,” replied the Corporal. “This is the guard that has just come off duty. I shouldn’t think there was light enough left for a picture.”
The day had almost gone, and in half an hour the boys were on the train again on their way back to New York, where the newsboys were shouting about battles, and the papers had stupendous news eight inches high.
“I hear,” said Owen, “that our smoky powder is making it awfully hard for anybody to get good bombardment pictures.” Allan thought it would be hard to report a bombardment from the ship that was doing the bombarding. “But I can’t see,” he said, “why they shouldn’t get good shots from the boats that were looking on.” “I tell you what I’d like to have had,” said McConnell, “and that was a good chance at that Matanzas mule when the shell hit him!”
“‘The old guard.’”
Both Allan and McConnell were greatly interested in the war-ships, and read news of their doings with particular attention. When the victorious ships of Sampson’s fleet returned northward, the club hired a launch and went down the river to see and picture the inspiriting naval parade. The scenes in the bay and up the river to Grant’s tomb furnished material for one of the most beautiful lantern displays the club ever held.