Pss-chug! That bullet caught Dalzell's uniform cap, carrying it from his head to a distance some forty feet rearward.
"Whew! That gives some idea of the spitefulness of a bullet, doesn't it?" muttered Danny Grin, as a seaman ran for the ensign's cap and returned with it.
"It must be that I didn't get iron-rust enough on this white uniform," commented Dalzell, coolly, gazing down at the once white uniform that he had yellowed by a free application of iron rust. "My clothing must still be white enough to attract the attention of a sharpshooter so distant that I don't know where he is."
Still Trent held his command in waiting, for no orders had come to move it forward.
"The barracks are over there," said Dave, pointing. "So far as I have been able to judge, none of the bullets come from that direction."
Still the desultory firing continued. The occasional shots that rang out showed, however, that the Americans were not firing in force.
"There they go!" called Lieutenant Trent, drawing attention to the nearest barracks. From the parade ground in front, small detachments of Mexicans could be seen running toward different parts of the town.
"Are you going to fire on them?" asked Darrin.
"Not unless the Mexicans fire on us, or I receive orders to fire," the lieutenant answered. "I don't want to do anything to disarrange the admiral's plans for the day, and at present I know no more than you do of what is expected of us."
Suddenly the air became alive with the hiss of bullets.