CHAPTER EIGHT.
MAJOR BLOSSOM.
On reaching the camp I found a mounted orderly in front of my tent.
"From the general," said the soldier, touching his cap, and handing me a sealed note.
The orderly, without waiting a reply, leaped into his saddle and rode off.
I broke the seal with delight: "Sir,--You will report, with fifty men, to Major Blossom, at 4 a.m.
to-morrow.
"By order,--" (Signed) "A.A.A.-G.
"Captain Haller, commanding Co.

Rifle Rangers." "Old Bios, eh?
Quartermaster scouting, I hope," said Clayley, looking over the contents of the note.
"Anything but the trenches; I am sick of them." "Had it been anybody else but Blossom--fighting Daniels, for instance-- we might have reckoned on a comfortable bit of duty; but the old whale can hardly climb into his saddle--it _does_ look bad." "I will not long remain in doubt.

Order the sergeant to warn the men for four." I walked through the camp in search of Blossom's marquee, which I found in a grove of caoutchouc-trees, and out of range of the heaviest metal in Vera Cruz.

The major himself was seated in a large Campeachy chair, that had been "borrowed" from some neighbouring rancho, and perhaps it was never so well filled as by its present occupant.
It would be useless to attempt an elaborate description of Major Blossom.

That would require an entire chapter.
Perhaps the best that can be done to give the reader an idea of him is to say that he was a great, fat, red man, and known among his brother officers as "the swearing major".