“Bound for Santa Cruz, so I heard our captain remark,” answered one of the soldiers in Larry’s boat. “Got any tobacco, North Dakota?”
“Nary a pipeful, wuss luck,” was the response; and then the line straightened out as the casco ahead cleared herself from the mud, and the two boats moved apart once more.
“Are we really going to Santa Cruz?” questioned Larry, as soon as he got the chance. “I thought we were bound for the north shore of the lake.”
“I can only tell you what I heard the captain say,” answered the soldier, with a shrug of his shoulder. “General Lawton ain’t blowing his plans through a trumpet, you know.”
“I hope we do go to Santa Cruz,” mused Larry, as he thought of what had been said of Benedicto 26 Lupez. “And if we take the town I hope we take that rascal, too.”
The best laid plans are often upset by incidents trifling in themselves. It was the dry season of the year, and the Pasig River, usually broad and turbulent, was now nothing better than a muddy, shallow creek, winding and treacherous to the last degree. As night came on the expedition found itself still in the stream and many miles from the lake, and here cascos and launches ran aground and a general mix-up ensued.
“Hullo, what have we run up against now?” growled the lieutenant in charge of the soldiers in Larry’s boat. “Can’t you keep out of the mud, Jackie?”
“I’m doing my best,” panted the youth, as he shoved off for at least the fourth time. “With the lines forward and aft pulling one way and another it’s rather difficult to keep to the channel, especially in the dark.”
“Oh, you’re only a boy and don’t understand the trick,” growled the lieutenant, who was in a bad humor generally. “I don’t see why they let you come along.”
“Our boat is doing about as well as any of them,” 27 answered Larry, bound to defend himself. “Two boats are aground to our left and three behind us.”