"Here is a big wagon bound for the fort," said Walton, as they left the station. "We'll ride down on that, for the soldiers in charge gave me permission, should you show up."
The wagon was loaded with blankets, and the pile made a soft seat. Soon there came a crack of a whip, and they were off, down a sandy highway leading directly to the sea. Soon the salt air filled their nostrils.
"Oh, we're in good shape to give the Dons a hot reception, if they show themselves around here," said one of the soldiers, in reply to a question from Walter. "We've got some of the finest guns in the country at the fort, and can reach a ship ten or twelve miles out in the harbor."
"I should like very much to inspect a real fort," answered the youth. "The guns must be even more complicated than on board a warship."
"The disappearing guns are very fine. But I doubt if you could get permission to go through now—at least, not until you were duly enlisted into the navy and had your uniform on. You know we have strict orders to keep all outsiders at a distance. We don't want any Spanish spies to get plans of our hidden batteries and the fort itself."
"Would they dare to try to get them?" asked Si. "'Pears to me that would be a mighty risky piece of business."
"Certainly they would try. You mustn't think that all Spaniards are cowards—even if the authorities are responsible for blowing up the Maine. They'll give us a good shake up, if they get the chance."
"I don't think so," said Caleb Walton. "They are not as up-to-date as we are. I know we can beat 'em at gun practice every round."
"Don't brag. Wait till the war is over."
"I'm not bragging—only talking facts, sergeant. I have a friend at the Brooklyn Navy-Yard, and he wrote to me about the gunners on the Vizcaya, when that Spanish warship was lying off Staten Island this spring. He said they were—well tired, I reckon we'd call it,—and didn't have any drills worth mentioning all the while the ship was there. Now you know that won't do."