That night Basil wrote home. He had not fired his musket a single time.
He saw nothing to shoot at, and he saw no use shooting until he did have
something to shoot at. It was terrible to see men dead and wounded, but
the fight itself was stupid--blundering through a jungle, bullets
zipping about, and the Spaniards too far away and invisible. He wanted
to be closer.

"General Carter has sent for me to take my place on his staff. I don't
want to go, but the Colonel says I ought. I don't believe I would, if
the General hadn't been father's friend and if my 'bunkie' weren't
wounded. He's all right, but he'll have to go back. I'd like to have
his wound, but I'd hate to have to go back. The Colonel says he's sorry
to lose me. He meant to make me a corporal, he says. I don't know what
for--but Hooray!

"Brother was not in the fight, I suppose. Don't worry about me--please
don't worry.

"P. S.--I have often wondered what it would be like to be on the eve of
a battle. It's no different from anything else."

Abe Long and Crittenden were bunkies now. Abe's comrade, the boy
Sanders, had been wounded and sent to the rear. Reynolds, too, was shot
through the shoulder, and, despite his protests, was ordered back to the
coast.

"Oh, I'll be on hand for the next scrap," he said.

Abe and Crittenden had been side by side in the fight. It was no
surprise to Crittenden that any man was brave. By his code, a man would