“Like as not they will leave us here to mind the boats,” replied Larry. “I can tell you that I am rather sorry I came along,” he added soberly.
“Sorry!” ejaculated Jack Biddle. “Surely, Larry, ye ain’t afraid—”
“No, I’m not afraid,” interrupted the youth. And then he told of the scene in the casco, and of what Lieutenant Horitz had said. When he had finished, Jack cut a wry face and Luke uttered a low whistle.
“You’ve run up agin a rock fer sartin, Larry,” remarked Luke. “I reckon he can make things look putty bad for ye if he’s of a mind to do it.”
“Keep quiet an’ say nuthin’, an’ he may forgit all about it,” was Jack Biddle’s advice.
The boats having been cared for, the sailors followed the soldiers through the field and into the woods. All told there were twenty-five jackies, and by common consent they formed themselves into a company of their own, with a petty officer named Gordell at their head. Gordell went to General Lawton for directions, and was told to follow the volunteers until given further orders. Each sailor was armed with a pistol and a ship’s cutlass.
The march was a hot one, but Larry was now getting accustomed to the tropics and hardly minded this. The little company advanced with caution, nobody desiring to run into an ambush. Soon the firing on the right reached their ears, and they knew that some sort of an engagement was on. Then came a halt, and presently the darkness of night fell over them; and they went into camp beside a tiny watercourse flowing into a good-sized stream which separated the expedition from the outskirts of Santa Cruz.
Supper disposed of, Larry and Luke Striker took a stroll forward, to find out what the firing line was really doing and if the insurgents were in front in force. “We may have a bigger fight on hand nor any of us expect,” suggested the old Yankee gunner.