There was a moment’s silence, then Judson continued:  “Funny thing happened afterward, though.  Jacket had to do his turn at picket duty that night, and he got scared of the dark.  We heard him squalling and screaming—­”

Jacket started to his feet.  “That’s a dam’ lie.” he exclaimed, resentfully.  “I’m not scared of no dark.”

“Didn’t you holler till you woke the whole camp?”

“I ain’t scared of no dark,” the boy repeated; but his pride, his complacency, had suddenly vanished.  He dug his toes into the dirt; in his eyes were tears of mortification.  His cigar had evidently become tasteless, for he removed it from his lips and gazed at it indifferently.

“Did you cry?” O’Reilly smiled; and the lad nodded reluctantly.

“Did he cry?” Judson echoed.  “Why, we thought we were attacked.  He put the whole camp in an uproar.”

“What was the trouble, Jacket?”

“I—­I was—­” The boy’s smooth brown cheeks paled, and his moist
eyes dilated at the memory.  “I ain’t scared of any-------Spaniard
when he’s alive, but—­it’s different when he’s dead.  I could see
dead ones everywhere!” He shuddered involuntarily.  “They fetched
me to General Gomez and—­Caramba! he’s mad.  But after I tell him
what I seen in the dark he say I don’t have to go back there no
more.  He let me go to sleep ’longside of his hammock, and bimeby I
quit cryin’.  I ain’t never stood no picket duty since that night. 
I won’t do it.”

It was plain that discussion of this unhappy subject was deeply distasteful to the youthful hero of Pino Bravo, for he edged away, and a moment later disappeared.  “Queer little youngster,” Captain Judson said, meditatively.  “He idolizes you.”

O’Reilly nodded.  “Yes, poor little kid.  I wonder what will become of him after the war?  After the war!” he mused.  “I wonder if it will ever end.”

“Humph!  If we had more generals like Gomez and Garcia and Maceo—­”

“We’ve got three better generals than they.”

“You mean—–­”

“Generals June, July, and August.”

“Oh yes!” The artilleryman nodded his understanding.  “There’s no end of yellow-jack among the Spaniards.  Speaking of that, what do you think of Miss Evans’s work in the field hospitals?”

Judson shifted his weight so that his eyes could rest upon a white tent which showed through the greenery at a distance; it was the one tent in all the encampment, and it had been erected that very morning to shelter Norine Evans, but just arrived from headquarters in the Cubitas hills.  The captain’s lids were half closed; his heavy, homely face was softened by a peculiar rapt expression.  He did not seem to expect an answer to his question.

“I don’t think much of it,” O’Reilly confessed.

“You don’t!” Judson brought himself back to earth with a start.  “Humph!  Well, I think it’s perfectly wonderful.  I think she’s the most wonderful woman, and—­” His voice died out; he turned once more in the direction of the tent.