He found O’Neil in his quarters and pressed the paper upon him.
The new boatswain’s mate’s eyes opened wide with surprise, and his face was flushed with delight.
“I congratulate you, O’Neil,” Phil cried. “You deserve it, and more too.”
O’Neil’s voice was husky with manly emotion, as he thanked the young officer.
“I shan’t forget your kindness,” he said gratefully.
A few hours later three travelers passed along the narrow streets of La Boca in the direction of the suburbs. Each carried a small bundle in one hand and a climbing stick in the other. Their clothes were old and worn as if their owners were accustomed to much tramping over a rough country. They passed without hindrance through the successive lines of defense of the loyal army. Walking Englishmen were frequent and their costumes bore out the part.
Leaving the city behind them, they traveled along the military road, running parallel to the sea. Its sides were lined with high tropical vegetation, with here and there a hut nestling in a clearing, but all were deserted. They were between the lines of the two armies.
A quarter of a mile down the road a dark object came into view, standing like an abandoned wagon in the middle of the sun-baked road-bed.
“Artillery,” Phil cried; “now look out for a challenge.”
“I hope they don’t shoot first and challenge afterward, like Cuban guerrillas,” said O’Neil calmly.