"We're fighting savages, we must remember that," said Sam.
"Then we've got a way of trying our pistols and rifles on natives working in the fields; it's rather novel, to say the least. I saw one man in the 73d try his new revolver on a native rowing a boat on the river, and over the fellow toppled and the boat drifted down-stream. The men all applauded, and even the officers laughed."
"Boys will be boys," said Sam, smiling. "They're good shots, at any rate."
"They are that. There were some darkies plowing up there just this side of San Diego, and some of our fellows picked them off as neatly as you please. It must have been eight hundred yards if it was a foot. But somehow I don't quite like it."
"War is war," said Sam, using a phrase which presumably has a rational meaning, as it is so often employed by reasonable people. "It doesn't pay to be squeamish. The squeamish men don't make good soldiers. I've seen enough to learn that. They hesitate to obey orders, if they don't like them."
As he said this they passed a small crowd of boys in the street. They were trying to make two dogs fight, but the dogs refused to do so, and the boys were beating them and urging them on.
"What stupid brutes they are," said Sam. "They're badly trained."
"They haven't had a military education," responded Cleary. "But I almost forgot to ask you, have you seen the papers from home this morning? They're all full of you and your greatness. Here are two or three," and he took them from his pocket.
Sam opened them and gazed at them entranced. There was page upon page of his exploits, portraits of all kinds, biographies, anecdotes, interviews, headlines, everything that his wildest dreams had imagined, only grander and more glorious. There was nothing to be seen but the words "Captain Jinks" from one end of the papers to the other.
"They've even got a song about you," said Cleary. "Here it is: