“Yes, of course.”
“Hi yi!” Pompey chuckled “’Spec’ Very Cruz ain’t a place to lib in, dese days. Hi yi! Guess when dose big bombs come a-sailin’ dey say: ‘Where dose Mexicans? Where dose Mexicans? Here dey be, here dey be—Boom! Now where dey be?’ Yes, suh, white folks better get out. Bombs cain’t take time to ’stinguish color. Gin’ral Scott, he in berry big hurry to march on to City ob Mexico. Gwine to spend Fo’th ob Jooly in Halls ob Montyzoomy, eatin’ off’n golden platters. Come along, white boy. Ain’t got nuffin’ but cold cohn pone an’ salt hoss, but I’ll feed you. You gwine to jine the ahmy?”
“Hope to,” said Jerry.
“What’s yo’ name?”
“Jerry Cameron.”
“Any kin to the No’th Car’liny Camerons?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t any folks.”
“Sho’, now! Dem No’th Car’liny Camerons are mighty uppity people. Dat Lieutenant Grant, he a fine man, too. But I’m ’tached to Fust Lieutenant Smith, Fo’th United States Infantry. If you get ’tached to Lieutenant Grant, I’m uppitier than you are, remember. When you work ’round with me you got to ’bey my ohders. I’m yo’ s’perior offercer.”
“All right, Pompey,” Jerry agreed.
He munched the cornbread and salt beef, and Pompey chattered on.